


A Taste of What You Paid For

by ascxndent



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: F/M, the opposite of a fix-it fic, tw: kallus is a really really shitty dad tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4919296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascxndent/pseuds/ascxndent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You feel your child's every joy, and their pain. You watch their failings and you see your own. For that... I am sorry." Or, there is always a price to pay. Agent Kallus will soon learn this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is my means of coping with the season two premiere that left me an emotional wreck. thus, leading me to write angst to worsen my wounds, oops. somewhat AU-ish in that (doing the math here for some things to work out possible) would mean that the years the empire lasts a few years longer than it canonically did in that the periods between the events of the ot film series are somewhat extended for this. but other than that, yeah.

X

“Did she deserve to die?”

_Yes._

“No, sweetheart.”

. 

.

.

It never seems to sit well with him --- it’s a girl, they tell him excitedly --- because it had never been what he wanted. Not the daughter, the entire concept of fatherhood, he could not will himself to be an affectionate and influential figure as one is supposed to be. The fault did not lie in some tragic mishap regarding his own childhood, his parents had been ordinary. His mother presumably at least, as she was dead before he was able to remember her in a speeder accident; there was a thrill, a selfish passion she had for dabbling in races at times, that she was unable to let go of to choose her firstborn son over it. But the absence of a mother figure, again, has nothing to do with his dislike of children. He is --- admittedly, hopelessly --- devoted towards his occupation in the Empire over anything else, and wasn’t willing to sacrifice it for a bothersome child that would cling at his leg and demand his entire attention.

Perhaps he’s no better than his own mother then, _perhaps_. But he’s not one to recognize hypocrisy within him.

The reaction upon learning the gender had not been a joyous one, but was neither verbal nor outright to express disappointment. There hadn’t been a need for any words to be spoken though; just about everyone could tell by the unconscious expression on his face seconds after hearing the news. To some, the reaction was the equivalent of a report regarding the steadily increasing numbers of riots. The shape of his mouth had pressed into a thin, tight line of silence before pinching into a curled scowl. If he believes it that there had been an effort to hide his dismay, he was fooling no one. Even a med droid, programmed only to focus on its duty over anything else, would wince in some form.

A boy had _potential_ , at least. At least, knowing the path that which the imperial academies were beginning to take. Favor fell onto them as opposed to the girls; save for an exceptional few with high intelligence, so his pride and hope depended on a son. This was an unfortunate setback that he would have to deal with then, for the first would be the last. He wouldn’t be making the same mistake _twice_.

She cared little for his reaction, but no matter how well she could mask her emotions, there was an undeniable flash of pain in her eyes over his bitter disappointment. For that, part of him wants to laugh. What had she been expecting out of this? That this mess of a situation would work out itself and evolve into them becoming some sort of an unlikely family? This was an unplanned accident, resulting from one too many drinks at an otherwise dreadfully uneventful cocktail party, they weren’t _in love_. He’d even told her directly --- although _subtly_ , of course – that she was under no obligation to even keep this child, perhaps it would be better if this entire situation somehow disappeared. But there’s a stubborn pride in her, though different to his no less passionate, that refused. She didn’t care for what he had to say or what he would do, their little one was _perfect_. Absolutely perfect. Their daughter, born with a tuft of wispy blonde hair and eyes that would eventually darken, hardly uttered a whimper after her birth.

There’s a part of her that almost feels victorious when he comes around, eventually, when the icy exterior of his personality melts. He surrenders into her steel glared will into at least giving it a chance in holding the infant, and before long there’s the slightest hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. While there was much of her mother present and probably here to stay, he can see the beginnings of formatting freckles on her face in splattered, little patterns like his. The sight causes his heart to pound beneath his armor with a pride that seemed to make up for what was lost in her not being a boy, because she was undeniably his. Yet, strangely, any paternal feelings did not surge through him. Maybe it was a numbing shock he was still under, that it hadn’t sunk in to him that --- whether he wanted her or not --- his child was here and _his_.

So help him, she will become something extraordinary in serving the Empire someday

. 

.

.

Maketh is, unsurprisingly, absolutely enamored by their daughter. Her duties as a minister are demanding as ever, the outside influences don’t seem to care that she just spent nearly eleven hours in absolute agony nor that she ought to be resting as a result. And honestly, it isn’t as though she treats herself any better, she will push herself to get a task done if she must and there’s an abundance always waiting to be done. She pulls herself through grueling tasks, preoccupied by the longing thought of her cherubic faced child and her musical laughter, suffering hollowness in her heart when separated. She’d much rather hold her little one as opposed to a datapad.

_I love you, I love you with all my heart and bid you never forget that_. But of course a squirming babe can’t comprehend their mother’s words, even when brown eyes seemed to focus upon the matching pair. A smile still makes its way onto Maketh’s mouth, mixed by the unadulterated happiness of these moments and saddened by the bittersweet fact of how few and short they are. Surely the troubling events of Lothal will come to an end, won’t they? They can’t possibly escalate much further than from what has happened now, dare she think and pray, don’t let them worsen. She doesn’t want to be constantly absent in her daughter’s life, leading her to feeling neglected or unwanted. She’ll come to understand, won’t she? That she is the one pure thing in her life, above anything else, and that whatever so-called love Kallus might spare occasionally for her can’t match her own. It is, in fact, superior by a thousand times.

_My poor little one_ , she’ll think at times. _You weren’t what your father wanted, but you are no less dear to me_.

.

.

.

She isn’t even two; she’s in fact less than two, when her mother is so cruelly taken from her

.

.

.

.

There is but an odd, distant memory that lingers in her young mind. She can’t quite distinguish anything specific, the occasion or the circumstances surrounding it; the memory’s existence fades away from the child’s head as quickly and quietly as dust is carried away by the wind. But for a while, it was there; being in her mother’s arms --- it _had_ to be her, at least, there is no other who held her with such care --- but there’s something off. Her arms are shaking, struggling to hold her up despite her lightweight. The infant bobs along in her mother’s arms as she seems to be making quick pace, her voice light and frantic. The fear laced in her voice --- even when she can’t remember the _exact words_ \--- was more upsetting over anything.

“Kallus! Please!”

Her lip quivers from the raised voices, the strain in her mother’s as she masks fear and the introduction of her father’s; a low growl, much like an untamed animal that is best left be. Her mother persists and there’s an argument that seems to follow, with a disregard to the babe in her arms entirely.

“For the love of our child, for the love of Marcella --- “

Their voices became an incoherent mix from thereon out; between the pleas of her mother and the obvious, thinning restraint in her father’s voice. It’s not like the either to act this way, for what little she knows of them, and there’s a sense of chaos and dread in the memory. Perhaps it’s no wonder that the memory is eventually lost, because she really didn’t _want_ to remember it.

“These are circumstances beyond my control, _minister_.”

“No!”

The noise eventually drowns itself and cuts to an abrupt end; the voice of her mother’s voice is lost, she buries her head against the crook between her daughter’s neck and shoulder, drawing her closer. A thousand forces of this galaxy couldn’t pry her away from her arms in that moment, but before long something would.

.

.

.

This was the last time Maketh would ever hold her.

.

.

.

There is never the chance to give an official goodbye --- there are no goodbyes in _murder_ \--- and all the remains is a hollow grave, but a baby can’t possibly comprehend that. It doesn’t seem to dawn on her that her mother is gone, save for a few instances where she weeps and there doesn’t seem to be a single caretaker that can find the resolution. But she can’t possibly carry any actual memories of her mother, beyond what lies ahead in her future as playback holos from events, there’s otherwise nothing. She can’t possibly recall any of the moments of her mother’s unconditional affection for her, the sound of her melodic voice or sight of her enthusiastic smile at the sight of her. There are _vague_ pieces here and there --- a mixed imagery of various shades of blue and yellow, probably the locks of hair she grabbed onto --- but nothing more.

And, Kallus supposes, he ought to be feeling a form of guilt over this. She too is motherless and carries no memories of her, as he does. But where does guilt come into play over what is rightful justice? Of course there isn’t a twinge of guilt at his heart, there isn’t a need for it. There’s dignity and his loyalties withholding onto the Empire, for the Empire knows that what he did was what _had_ to be done. In death, Maketh ought to consider herself lucky for as merciful of an end as she was granted and how afterwards she’s painted as a martyr. Her death itself now a symbol against the insurgents. When he thinks her name, when he thinks of her he sees tainted ink spilled over her name. Traitor, he thinks so viciously that had he said it aloud would sound almost like an inhumane whisper. It almost _hurts_ him that she had been so foolish, so selfish to deserve death. It wasn’t just an act against the empire, against everything they stood for, no. It was a sense of abandonment to him, to _their_ little girl.

He stops.

For a moment, there’s a sound that emanates from his mouth that’s like a low, quiet chuckle. What a fool of himself he’s making, over _their_ child. This term _them_ , implying some form of togetherness that clearly never was. There was an incident that was never intended to have happened, that was never supposed to happen, that entangled the two of them into a predicament that they were somewhat learning to tolerate and cooperate together. Much like a pair of bickering, separated lovers --- no, he’s doing it again. He’s placing incorrect terms and giving off the wrong impression to his own subconscious, he refuses to think of her beneath him in his arms a breathless beauty. She was one amongst many. She wasn’t the first and, if anything, it should fill him with disgust that he lay with an enemy in the making. Instead, he dictates his subconscious into thinking exactly that. A notoriously dedicated individual, the hateful thoughts spread through like a slow, altering poison that cannot be undone.

Before long, the slip-ups of moments that he thinks of her as beautiful will be gone.

Still, as cruel as he can proudly be at times, his arrogance also strives from --- at least what he claims --- his talent in being begrudgingly _kind_ when he shouldn’t have to be. He won’t expose his daughter to the truth of what her mother was, as much as he’d like to do so to ensure she’ll never be anything like her. _Of course she won’t_ , he thinks to himself assuredly. Her image may practically mirror her mother’s, but she is no less his. In fact, she’s _all_ his now. Kallus can easily recall the promise that he’d sworn when holding her in his arms that first time, the small swaddled bundle with a touch of freckles beneath the pink, how he promised she’d become something extraordinary. She would not be like him, she would be better. But she will be forever blind, like all the rest, that her mother was innocent and done wrong by the insurgents. After all, where’s the harm in a little vengeful passion in her spirit? If she’s anything like either parent, surely there’s a spark in her soul that can be ignited by a thirst for vengeance to injustice?

At the end of the day he returns to the nursery, lifting her from where she was sleeping fitfully to rest her upon his shoulder. There was a sense of comfort that she always seem to draw from him, despite how cold and hard the surface of his armored shoulder pad was, perhaps feeling safe and secure that way. There was no harm that the little one’s imaginative mind could think of that could penetrate through armor like that; in her father’s arms was where she was safest. Although, in her mother’s, she was warmest and happiest.

_My poor little one_ , he thinks with a sullen expression. _Papa’s going to destroy the bad things in this world for you_.

.

.

.

.

Although a man of his word, he would not keep to the promises he made onto his daughter. Many of which were involving dedication to her life in some way. But he insists that there isn’t any way to fault him with this. After all, had he not from the very start always said that he could never _become_ that figure a child would need? Besides, these situations have become direr. Sending her away is the safest option as of the moment. Lothal is beginning to give off a vibe of an inevitable ticking time bomb since her mother’s own death --- ironic it being a set detonation --- an instinctual feeling warns him that time is short. Before long all that stands before him right here will be nothing more than a lost cause and ashes, he would rather not see her bones become part of this.

Others are skeptical of his choice, but are wise not to voice their opinions. He won’t pretend to ignore the bewilderment in their eyes, no matter how noble his apparent motives are. Maybe it’s because within the empire’s lines someone knows something, rumors spread like wildfire. There are either those that know or those that think they know, the former at least are smart enough to keep their mouths closed on what’s factual. Unfortunately, this time both are right. There are those that _know_ and there are those that _say_ he was involved with her death. Now it all seems to add together; it’s convenient for him to get rid of the last piece of her, the very last thing that can possibly haunt his mind, daresay make him feel guilt. But he _doesn’t_ feel guilt, he certainly doesn’t waste his time pitying the dead. The dead don’t need it anyways.

No, no it isn’t Maketh he could possibly feel guilt for. It’s for _Marcella._

.

.

.

.

_It’s better this way,_ he thinks forcibly and it’s a wonder over who he’s trying to convince here. Is it him reciting how he’ll answer any concerns from anyone who ever dares voice their opinions, or is it him nurturing his mind into ease so he can fall asleep easier? As if the so called Butcher of Lasan, who raises his head high with a boisterous pride over such a horrendous act, has ever been haunted by any form of remorse.

It’s not all his fault either. His superiors aren’t amused over the idea of a high ranking ISB Agent balancing between imperial priorities and _attempting_ to manage parenthood, in that he occasionally attends to his daughter when he hasn’t abandoned her to other caretakers. Once in a great while he’ll parade her about the room in his arms, as if she’s a symbol of the empire on display. Generally it stirs sympathy from any audience, regardless of their stance on policies or if they’re aware of the conflicts with rebellious uprisings, because in that instance it doesn’t seem to matter. At the end of the day there’s a motherless child --- because of the _monstrous insurgents_ \--- who has the potential to lose her father as well in a similar sense and that, in spite of being aware of the risks, he still is willing to lay his life out on the risk.

It makes no difference, she loves him no less because at the age, all children are oblivious and forgiving. Or, if he’s being honest with himself, once more it’s a bit of her mother showing through her in how she acts. Naïve and forgiving in a sense.

He can only hope that eventually she’ll forgive him on his decision in sending her off of Lothal. The sense of foreboding he can’t seem to shake away --- that seems to have spread to others like a plague --- that inevitable doom approaches leads to just about every sane individual here wanting to abandon at the first opportunity. At least he can polish off his actions here as being noble, of a protective father wanting to save his daughter from becoming entangled in this madness. She’ll be sent off world onto an academy --- one which, she’ll take part in when she becomes of age, and cleverly leaves no record or name as to her current location. He can’t take any risks --- with paranoia eating at him --- that suddenly that _Jedi_ and his crew will tempt her as they had with her mother. _I won’t lose you too._

It’s as if there’s a part of him that’s beginning to begin his own conspired lies; slowly disassociating himself with the involvement of what became of Maketh, wanting to share the same mindset as all the tricked citizens and sharing their same reactions and emotions. There’s a different sense of inevitably, ticking by slowly with time that someday Marcella will _know_.

Maybe that’s the sense of loss that he dreads over physical loss. Maybe --- for the man who knows no remorse --- there’s an ache in his chest each and every time he’s ever glanced at her, at her mother’s eyes in her and always knowing.

.

.

.

There are days where he forgets he’s a father; that, now and forever, there will always be a part of him associated to the lowly Lothal-native girl through a mistake. Where sometimes his men are strangely considerate and sentimental, going as far as acting out of professional guidelines to ask how his daughter is doing. At first, there’s an unease about others inquiring --- as if bringing up her name will jinx her safety, that somehow her hidden whereabouts will become exposed. Maybe that’s not what really bothers him, but the fact that he’s being reminded. Or that he has to be reminded --- bah, he wonders what sort of disgust his parents would think of him like that --- simply because he doesn’t want to be.

The responses are practiced and rehearsed lies because, in truth, he doesn’t quite know how she’s doing. He can’t comprehend the damned feelings of a verbally unresponsive toddler --- well, save for the few phrases she had learned prior to their departing --- and doesn’t have the time to attempt to distinguish them either. Eventually it progresses to him forbidding anyone to ever mentioning Marcella with or without his presence, lest of all that the enemy ever learns about her. _Ah_ , there’s the guilt trip that works into shutting them up. Not everyone was involved in the conspiracy, after all, and they too only know of the one-sided tragedy. They know he only means well in protecting her.

He distances himself, rarely ever hearing of her. Her caretakers and nurses are too intimidated by him to make the initiative without risking the chance of _bothering_ him, so everything is left be. By this point he supposes she talks some by now, eats solid foods and is capable of running rampant; something that academy she’s taken sanctuary at surely won’t stand for. That sort of behavior probably would’ve embarrassed her mother, Maketh told him stories of how the only sort of rude behavior she could’ve ever considerably demonstrated was correcting one of her professors --- it was given, she was smarter than that bumble headed fool anyway --- not that…. Not that whatever she told him ever mattered anyways. It was merely a thought that came to mind.

There isn’t a feeling of lonesomeness that lingers over him. There isn’t a hollow ache that superstition commonly tells of parents separated from their children. By now Marcella could’ve uttered _Daddy_ amongst her slow growing list of vocabulary words, and he would feel nothing at the thought that he’s missing it.

.

.

.

There are nights spent where he turns in his sleep, where he jolts awake and finds one arm outstretched and draped across the other side of the bed. An empty space for one who had never truly been a lover. _Odd._ To have and to hold, but she’d never been his anymore than he’d been hers.

.

.

.

Elsewhere Marcella thrives; much like a flower in bloom of early spring. Her nature is somewhat wild as a toddler, with a habit of running freely down halls and giggling merrily all the way. Her caregiving nurses are always sharp on their feet on the task of retrieving her, scolding her for her misbehavior. The academy isn’t particularly pleased by the rambunctious behavior; this is a fine establishment for education after all and not an amateur drop-off babysitting service. They know better than to file a word of complaint to her father though, knowing how he works closely with Lord Vader as of these days, and remain patient under the promise that she will become a fine student when she comes of age.

For all of her untamed childishness, there are signs of her mother showing subtly and slowly. At her most calm, she’s inquisitive and attentive to the adults that’s come to learn as “officials” --- granted, even when she hasn’t quite mastered saying the phrase yet --- and at her worst, there’s a stubbornness that’s the shadow of her mother; tiny fists clench, posture straightening and stamping her foot out of defiance because she won’t tolerate being denied something. _A bratty child_ , one professor huffed beneath his breath. His colleague glanced at him with an amused expression and contradicted; _it’s the spirit of a politician in the making._

Everyone presumed that she doesn’t know or care what became of her mother. She did not weep in the days after her mother’s death, she is still at an age where the news of it is still over her head. For all everyone else could’ve known, perhaps she didn’t care at all. She’s not the first orphan to have no memory --- then all the adults correct themselves, remembering she’s still got her father. Even if, given his lack of attention to her, she might as well be considered one. There was only one disturbing incident, however, that proved those presumptions wrong. She was three going on four, with all her teeth grown in and her reading skills advancing rapidly. One uneventful night she stirred awake, shaken by nightmare and weeping _Mama!_ over and over. There was not a single person that could console her, but could only watch on helplessly as they held her until she eventually tired herself out from crying and fell back asleep.

The incident goes unreported to her father. It’s highly likely Kallus would have never responded to it anyways.

.

.

.

Time passes, twelve years approximately, until fate once again intertwines between father and daughter. The Empire maintains, but by aged and exhausted pillars bound to crumble sometime soon, as any and all ancient dynasties have fallen in history. The Rebellion has spread like wildfire --- from star system to star system --- fear and submission have transformed to unsatisfactory and a stubborn anger that refused to back down. With every one leader captured or killed, five more seemed to spur with a hundred followers each. But the empire has always maintained, it always has for over two decades; this merely a passing strain, exhausting and overwhelming as it may be, it could go on until half of the damned galaxy lay in ruins and _so be it_.

Perhaps a little bit of Tarkin’s influence --- _cruel madness_ \--- has rubbed off onto him. Time has not been merciful to him; the youthful, violent, vivacious spirit in him has settled much like an old warrior --- as he so boastfully and arrogantly thinks of himself as one --- gone battle weary. There are creased lines by his eyes and the corners of his mouth, said to be made from the countless scowls of fury, and his strawberry hair is greying early. Countless scars don his body beneath his armor --- there’s one or two he cynically thinks of as the ones I was intended to die from --- and why is it, as of recent years, there’s a nagging feeling within him that insists he won’t be met with a glorious end? To him, it’s almost _anticlimactic_ to die a natural death at a time like this.

By now, Lothal is ashes and ghosts of people he could once faintly recall. It’s a scrapped project, an embarrassment of wasted potential. He can hardly remember much of his daughter, much less the voice of her mother. _Maketh_ , he still thinks with such spite because of how her name is an imprint --- a stain that can’t be washed away – onto him. Because of the bastard daughter that’s more of a trivial piece of information about him than something well known to the younger recruits, because she’s there nonetheless --- the piece of them both. No, he could not fill his heart with such malice onto Marcella after all this time nor can he fault her with any of this. But her _mother_ \--- her damned mother --- the image that won’t leave, even when he can’t entirely remember her anymore. Even when he got what he wanted in the hopes of forgetting her, she never quite left him. Even when he never thinks of her so fondly, when he never remembers their affairs --- strictly carnal, unprofessional, _tender_ \--- or whatever petty words dabbled from her mouth. When love was a word that was never even uttered between them, or if it had been perhaps he’s forgetting, it was him ignoring her little proclamation of it. How is one even haunted by a ghost that’s never hovered over him in his sleep? She’s dead and it was well deserved.

_No it wasn’t_ , one part of his conscience dared to argue once.

.

.

.

Lord Vader summons him for a private briefing via Holo; even after all this time that man’s presence, the mechanical pattern breathing is an unsettling noises that never leaves his mind hours after. Distance is never an issue in the Sith’s ability to bring harm onto someone. From what he understands of the latest rumors, the man simply needs the willpower and telekinetic abilities to strangle someone to death. There’s a moment that Kallus pauses before actually addressing the message, a hand brushing over his neck --- a nervous habit Tua had once done as well --- being a tad optimistic to presume that he isn’t being brought forth to be executed.

Nevertheless, Vader appears unpleased. Luckily, that’s not uncommon nor is that the first time Kallus is witnessing his displeased mood. At least, thankfully, it’s never his wrath. He has been a bystander to other victims of it, never wincing at the horrors inflicted onto them by the Sith or the all too familiar snap that eventually follows. Always the bystander, never the target and hopefully never to become one.

Until the message itself involves being tasked an assignment at Marcella’s academy.

_Rumors of rebellious uprisings, communications with notable leaders, supposed business, leaked intels_. It’s a series of phrases that sink into his mind one by one, of his worst fears. Of the rebellion’s ideals spreading onto the academy, onto her like a disease. It was something he thought he’d is oolated her frm when sending her away. She wasn’t within his reach, and somehow he’d foolishly decided that that was enough to qualify as nobody else being within her reach. But these wildfires spread, they’ll always find a way. Someone was out there possibly filling her head with these ridiculous ideas that could lead to a revolt, a revolt that in turn could lead to immediate response by imperial forces. Executions in riots were a common response to demonstrate authority, to break up the crowds and destroy the idea’s spirit. Usually the most spirited, vulgar ones were the targeted ones, or perhaps the loudest demonstrators that are presumed the leaders. _The foolishly bold and spirited ones,_ he thinks and the horror slowly dawns on him. _Foolishly bold, foolishly bold, foolishly bold_. 

Just like her mother.

“If your daughter is involved in the conspiracy, know that there will be no clemency spared for her.”

_ Just like her mother. _

”Of course, Lord Vader.”

And he, the response and submissive agent as usual heeding to the words. He, her father, once more choosing his sacred duty above her. That was the kind of man he claimed to be once, not so long ago. A man uninterested and not fond of children, by the claim that it was a nuisance to be the affectionate and influential figure a child would need. Is that not what he’d always thought? How _annoying_ it was to have a demanding child clinging at his leg and interrupting him from performing his job properly?

And shouldn’t he, in keeping up with proving his loyalties as usual, feel nothing for her is she’s a traitor? Traitors are traitors, regardless of their relations. Jovan, a name he hasn’t thought of in years is the first to come to his mind. Someone that he once called a friend, who had lied and manipulated the means of the Empire, of him. When word of his execution came through, he can recall a bitter sense of satisfaction he felt. What had his original words been about that subject? Ah, yes. Something along the lines of how his only regret was not being granted the honor in proving he would _go all the way_ to being the one to actually handle the executing job himself, but that was beyond his profession anyways.

Maybe those officials who heard him had taken those words to heart. Perhaps they’ll remember his longing request and offer up the chance this time onto his daughter; to prove his devotion. Because it’s always been about proving devotion, because of those suspected otherwise have been taken down and destroyed like the useless tools they’d been. Tools, not people. 

Of course he’ll intervene on imperial behalf. He’ll intervene on and for Marcella’s behalf for her own good, to save her from doing something that she doesn’t fully realize the consequences of. Something that she doesn’t quite understand, about the drastic means she’d be taking to turn against everything that has helped raise her, that’s protected her for all her life. Because the very thing that’s been protecting her all along has the very same potential to end her without a second thought. Perhaps a morbid concept to think of, but it makes sense to him. It’s the empire’s natural right to condone and punish troublemakers, given the state that it’s fallen into. It’s just… it’s just… it doesn’t need to become like this. It doesn’t need to end with a firing squad, with a blade, with Vader’s effortless abilities in the Force… No. No. He won’t let it become like this. He won’t let her fall in such a foolish way.

.

.

.

He dreams of _her_ that night, of Marcella. Strange, that a man can even dream of a face he hasn’t seen in so long, of a face that he’s never _seen_. Perhaps what was stranger was how he couldn’t even remember what he thought he saw from that dream, there was only an instinct that he knew it was her. Who else would be running down corridors, pushing past security with what strength she had, screaming for him? _No! Father, please! Don’t let them take me!_ Her pleas go ignored as her pursuers finally capture and arrest her, all while he coldly watches on. Something within him in that dream state won’t permit him to intervene, something forces him back --- not someone, there’s only himself --- his morals, he realizes. 

Tomorrow will lead him to an inevitable choice. One unlike any other, because… because there isn’t an obvious _right_. There’s only right and wrong, there is no grey moral to him; his decisions reflect off on what he believes the Empire would commend him on for choosing --- what the likes of Lord Vader would approve --- and defects are defects. They must be punished all the same regardless of their identity, as Lord Vader himself just warned him. Lord Vader wouldn’t grant mercy onto a defiant youth, regardless of her age or the manipulative influences that implanted these ideas in her head. The Empire wouldn’t let her off with a warning. His superiors wouldn’t let her get away with this inexcusable, possibly threatening behavior. Agent Kallus wouldn’t ignore the threat of a defect. 

But what would a father do? What was he supposed to do?

. 

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The instructors speak highly of her --- which is quite a difference for some and their original opinions of her when she’d been a toddler --- and her potential. The information is drowned out in his ears, nodding along occasionally as a means of pretending to pay attention to the conversations, and it isn’t to say he doesn’t believe them. He’ll take their word for it on all their praises, that she is so clever. She’s so ambitious. She’s spirited. _She’s like her mother in so many ways_. The last remark would’ve been enough to make his blood run cold, but he doesn’t allow an expression to indicate that. Every high compliment and regard of her builds up a nervous tension in him, there’s always a pattern in the riots started by the youth; it’s the bright, educated ones that turn against everything they’ve learned. They decide they’ve got a little arrogant wisdom of their own that’s superior; it only leads to a costly end.

One instructor, grey-haired and a stutterer in his presence, swallows and adds shakily; “And we highly doubt she’d be involved in any of these… _possible affairs._ ” 

He’ll decide for himself on that last one. 

Then a girl --- on the verge of becoming a young woman, really --- is introduced to the room, presumably an escort. There’s something fondly amusing at the sight of top cadets like her, of how stiff and stern they attempt to appear to prove their worth. By no means does this one shake by any chill air of the presence of superiors, she exerts her own capable confidence. 

“Hello, Father.”

_ Oh. _

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Kallus takes a good look at her, a good honest look for the first time in how many cycles, how many _years._ There’s much of her mother in her, he decides, _too much._ From the shape of her face and ele gant shape of her neck, to the attentive but skeptical look in her sharp, dark eyes. There was not a trace of him in her, save for the dusted freckles on her cheeks a touch of red in her gloriously long, blonde hair. He searches for an expression, a sign of some sort to understand the state she’s in and her true feelings. Just for _something_ , but comes up with nothing. Calm, calculating, and void of any personal feelings --- altogether the perfect expression for someone that could take a position of power someday, with no remorse in doing whatever must be done.

Upon being left alone, there’s an immediate change. As if a curtain was unveiled, her expression darkened drastically and _ah_ , there was some of him in her. That pinched scowl of hers was mirroring his from his youth. She looked at him as though he were a stranger and not her father, and perhaps somewhere deep down he knew he was undeserving of the latter title anyway. It had been what? Nearly twelve years? If he didn’t know any better, he was staring at the ghost of Maketh as opposed to her only living child. 

“This is a classified mission, I take it?” she inquired with a falsified Core accent. There was an ease in it, more rehearsed and smoother than her mother’s had been; but Marcella hadn’t spent the first twelve years of her life on the planet she was born on, after all. But then, _then_ the depth of her words sink in. Oh, her first presumption of him bothering to see her wouldn’t be personal, it would involve an order. Which… which was undeniably true, but the more he reflected on it, a bitter taste surged in his mouth that he realized was him automatically biting down on his tongue. Because _of course_ he would’ve responded truthfully, as an agent addressing a cadet. Not a father to a daughter.

“Perhaps I wanted to see my daughter.” he concurs, sounding harsher than intended. It was the only way he knew how to mask pain, and it wasn’t doing him any favors here. Yes, it actually _hurt_ him, the truth hurt him. 

”Hmph.” Marcella retorted, raising her brows in false interest. With a tone dripping in sarcasm she added; “I wonder who’s the lucky girl.” 

_Ouch._ There was her mother in spirit, for sure. 

”The one with a more mature attitude, _hopefully_.” Kallus answered with a tone of finality, laced with something along the lines mixed of a warning not to test his patience further. Disappointed was only a light term used to describe what he felt for how she’d turned out. In less than a few minutes he’d determined that every possible irritable trait of her mother was present in her, save for the whining --- something he hadn’t heard yet. Oh, he had a feeling that would eventually turn up in a conversation, so long as he stuck around to continue said conversation. 

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She looks to him with absolute resentment. He can practically feel her glare boring directly into his skin, so searing and malicious. She couldn’t possibly be aware of the circumstances surrounding her mother’s death, let alone care to know. She can’t possibly carry any memories of her, all that she has is the word of mouth from others over their resemblance and that’s it. But still, she looks at him as though she _knows_. That shouldn’t be such a frightening prospect for him, not when there’s nothing to even prove such a thing. _But there is_ , he reminds himself. Maker forbid, she’s had any form of contact with the insurgents and all these accusations are true. Especially if it were them. But they couldn’t have even known about her then, they’re much too preoccupied with an abundance of other issues to bother with now. 

Her eyes, he can’t help but dwell on. While not her most distinctive features, the expression depicted by them tugs at his memories. That stubborn defiance. Her mother had, in a sense, fought for her own life until the very inevitable end. He wouldn’t be surprised if such a fight lives on in her. No, no, no. She’s not one of them. He made a promise not to let her fall from grace. And so help him, if need be, he’d assert authority over her for her own good --- much like the disciplinary father he was supposed to be all along … and then it hits him. Supposed to be. He’d never been the father he was supposed to be to her. She looks to him as though he’s a stranger to her, which he is, and he doesn’t know her any better than she knows him. The Marcella he wants wouldn’t be a rebel and he won’t let her become that. 

But the Marcella he has standing before him, who walks with a high stride and the intent to ignore his attempts to reach out to her, isn’t the one he wants. _She’s just like her mother_. 

And oh, he had a bad feeling about this. . . .

X

_”You realize if all else fails, we will be caught.”_

_“I know.”_

_“You really want to do this, huh?”_

_“I know what my father’s done. I want to hear it from him first.”_


	2. Chapter 2

X

Gold shall be their crowns, and gold their shrouds.

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While she might have been dubbed the so called golden child of the academy, the validity was dubious and inconsistent to her history. True to their word, Marcella had been identical to her mother in nearly every way. A mix of wit and ambition, while potentially beneficial for the empire and it’s ever broadening heights of troubling dismay, was all the more dangerous. She was clever, as they had all spoken a thousand times over, but rarely did few ever add the latter portion of her being perhaps a tad _too_ clever for her own good. Like her mother before her, Marcella was always so inquisitive --- wanting to know why things were set as they were, the circumstances in how something came to be, why change was never considered --- gifted and cursed with a thirst for knowledge, to search for every answer front and back. It was a gift, considering how small the numbers of those like her had since dwindled in these dire times, and always appreciated by those eager to teach. But it was a curse, for the troubled ones were always the ones who didn’t know when to stop asking questions. _The ones who knew too much_ , in all reality.

Just like her mother, or so the rumors go by skeptics. The truth regarding her mother’s fate had long ago been exposed on Lothal, thanks to the efforts of the persistent insurgents that had witnessed it. A shame though, considering the wasteland that the planet had since become not long after. The smart and the impulsive citizens had the luck in taking the chance to scatter across the galaxy like ants before the empire had so graciously scrapped the entire project. By some miracle for Kallus, none of the whispers seemed to have traveled to her ears throughout all these years. Her location seemed so off reach and out of touch from the current events and exposure, her world revolved around the propaganda insinuated at the academy and nothing more. For a time, it would seem he’d gotten his wish in her not hearing a word of the conspiracies or him hearing anything troublesome of her. For a time, at least.

But so help her, she was born with a persistent spirit and a skeptical judgement. There are only so many lies one can successfully cram into a cranium with a false assuring smile before she’ll catch the drift of something being amiss. There’s a _look_ upon Marcella’s face that the professors and fellow cadets alike can tell, a look of doubt and dismay because of her questioning senses. But why are the numbers of insurgents rising, surely not everyone is born with a heart of anarchical nature and desire to destroy civilization? Shouldn’t we spread more educational facilities, to prevent naïve crowds from being fooled by a single, educated radical? _Why, why, why?_ To some, it’s amusing watching the way her brows knit together with a genuine expression, pondering deep in thought and curling the bottom of her lip. Other names begin to attach themselves onto her besides the semi-mocking golden child one, including idealist, revolutionist, and pacifist. They’re joked over between professors with a tone laced with cynicism, when they know more than they should and know the poison laced webs they’ve entangled and submitted themselves to. For all the skepticism in her soul, it’s still naïve to fail to make the connection that the empire’s intents and methods weren’t at all kindly. _Ah_ , one remarked and echoed the words of his colleague; _the girl’s truly a politician in the making, a good soul believing all the things she’s told_.

Unlike some, for others it’s hardly a joking matter. There are those that are fond of the girl, who swallow dryly and sip their tea nervously whenever she converses with them habitually. _Poor girl, carrying a name like that has made it difficult for her to make friends her age._ Because the conversations had gradually progressed from revolving around the knowledge taught in the archives of the building to the knowledge of current events, of the enormous galaxy that lay beyond her. The last time she’d set foot off any world, traveled in hyperspace and so on forth, she’d been a toddler evacuated off her home world after her mother’s murder. Holo imageries fail to recreate the sense of actually being there in the present moment, surrounded in the varying environments. They also had a tendency to be accompanied with vague detail reports; she insists there’s always something missing. She’s a girl on the search of the missing piece of a puzzle she’s been attempting to complete for most of her life, and unbeknownst to her, they fear that missing piece is also the trigger button to an explosive reaction.

Marcella is one of the finest students this academy has ever laid eyes on. She became practically immersed in her studies and emerged with grades beyond anyone else’s competitive capabilities, with sharpened wit and strength in being quick on her feet. Determination is practically a physical thing that surges through her veins. It’s always the best and brightest that slip through their fingers, killed too soon by foolish actions --- always the ones who knew too much --- and their cries of shame repeat like broken holo. _Oh what a shame, what a shame_. For some, the pattern will follow all the same should it come to be. Others are petrified of the prospect and taken the liberties to do all that they can to protect her from guiding herself onto this doomed path. They’ve sharpened their tongues and shut down conversations immediately when they can sense where the course of it is navigating towards. She’s begun to resent them for it, they can tell through the huff of frustration that escapes her mouth or the steel willed glare in her dark eyes. It’s a grueling task that by no means do they take pleasure for, especially knowing that she may never thank them for it, but that’s the idea to it. Maker forbid she ends up in a predicament of near death, of learning the cold hard truth and knowing she’s under an obligation to thank them because of what could have happened.

Or what could happen, should the worse come to be.

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When she was young she had thrived like a spring flower in bloom. Arriving at the tender age of nearly two and the eight years following were the happiest memories she has. While not necessarily memories filled with actual happy occasions or events, there’s just an oblivious feeling of euphoria that surges through her. Perhaps that’s what it is; obliviousness. It was a time when the academies had relented on ever lecturing her as she ran wild, when the surrounding environment she had relocated to seemed so large and vast. There were lively gardens filled with wildflowers in one courtyard, she can close her eyes and reflect back on the feeling of the warmth of the sunlight on her skin and the exotic scents wafted at her nostrils --- the occasional little sneeze too --- a beautiful time before the bleakness had settled over.

Because after that --- when this war she heard so little of --- had somehow left a ghostly touch over the academy, things had become serious. She knew it wasn’t just to do with her childhood kingdom slowly dying as she matured. Because… because wasn’t she a child, still? The academy didn’t seem to think so. No longer was any of her childish nature tolerated, and harsh disciplinary action was instilled when necessary. Although, she wasn’t all that rambunctious as the years followed. She swore that there were those just _irritated_ by the liveliness she naturally carried, from the skip in her walk and the little hum she’d sing to herself, flinching with expressions as though they were appalled by blinding sunlight. _Pessimistic_ , that had been one of her first ‘extensive words’ she’d learnt and pronounced perfectly on the first try. A description of the people --- of the strangers --- that surrounded her. But caregivers insisted in their gentle, nurturing tones of assurance that it always had to do with the stress of exams or difficult days. Everything complicated found a way to simplify itself whenever they explained it. But her nurses were relieved of their duties of handling her by the time of her tenth life day, and once again she was at a loss with no one to explain anything to her. From that day forth, she realized then that if she wanted answers so badly then she’d have to discover them on her own, because no one was going to give her the handouts of explanations anymore.

_It’s funny_ , she remembers nostalgically, the day that her caregivers had left her. Such an affair she can speak of casually, but at the time then had been a nightmare. Marcella had not handled the news at all, despite being ten years old and an age that the academy officials had so confidently presumed was a mature age to handle the separation. It was more than a separation, it was practical isolation. She wept and shrieked like bloody murder, clinging onto the hems of their dresses and begging for them not to leave her as though she was a daughter losing her mother. _Oh wait._ These were the only maternal figures she’d ever had in her life, in fact, the only parental figures at all. There was a father, yes, a man so ominously spoken of and always with such unease by the professors --- they’re afraid of him, she always knew this but never the why --- a man that was never in the picture at all that some even took to mistakenly referring her to as an orphan. Now here she was about to lose her only sense of comfort, for at the time she had no friends of any age. This wasn’t about independence and growing up. This was about being left alone entirely to fend for herself without any preparation for this whatsoever, the entire dismissal had been so abrupt.

The professors appeared absolutely appalled by her behavior, as if they hadn’t been expecting a ten year old girl to not handle such dismal news like this with courteous respect and maturity. Their wide eyes, blinking, blank expressions indicated to her that they had never even seen a child act up, perhaps never even seen a child. What? Did they so willingly accept her as a toddler into hiding because of her identity, or because of a payment offered by her father? What kind of romanticized version of children did they imagine where they’re always so submissive and obedient? What kind of child did they expect of her --- with the ferocity of both her mother and father running in her hot blood --- to never put up a fight for anything?

_Such behavior is not tolerated within these walls, Marcella Tua_. She can remember the grave sense of finality in their harsh tones so vividly, how she’d been wincing and hiccupping tears still at the time, yet managing to listen properly. She was so rarely addressed by her full name that sometimes she practically forgot her last name --- though, believe her, she was made to never forget the identity of her mother’s name at least --- and because of that, she knew that this was an absolutely serious lecture. Your father would be absolutely disappointed, no, outraged by your animalistic behavior.

Animalistic. That word in particular struck a chord in her mind years down the line, of a young child being compared to an animal. To this day her stomach tied itself into knots, thinking ahead of herself and wondering what the board members of the academy viewed themselves as; were they not the trainers themselves, handling untamed beasts to the preferred and socially acceptable behavior of imperial status? She’d wanted to protest at the time, her emotions a mix of anger and fear. She could compose herself and nod along obediently, make a thousand little sweet sounding promises to behave herself better next time and to never again act like that again. Which, in all reality, she did and always had since. All because of the malice of their tones in using the word father, the man --- the practical stranger --- she knew so little of. If he was menacing enough of a figure to unconsciously render them into nervous wrecks, she wondered what his own reaction would be then to hearing of his child displaying such misbehavior. What, is he going to kill me or _something?_ She remembered wondering bitterly once. It’s not uncommon for children to fear and say that expression metaphorically. But her? She’d wondered in the literal sense.

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By age eleven, her father is more of a weapon figure in her presence as opposed to an actual living being. He’s a threat that her superiors have used --- thankfully only on so few of occasions when she was younger --- as an extreme form of discipline. He’s an iconic status that she somehow knows so little of, but is subjected to comparison anyways. Her mother is the figure they resort to for complimenting and comparison almost always. But her father is the one to remark if they’re expressing disappointment of her. Yes, it’s partly to do with the fact that she’s _dead_. But wouldn’t he be proud of her as well? Isn’t there something of herself that she has from him that others can note? She’s seen images of her mother plenty of times before --- only still images sadly, never a recording and never the sound of her voice that she fails to carry memories of --- the woman she’s a mirror image of. Beautiful, ambitious, and dead before her time; that’s how Marcella would describe her. The odd bits and pieces that don’t match her mother’s features in those stills, or whatever she just can’t seem to explain the origins of, she naturally assumes comes from her father. Most notably, the freckles.

But she isn’t content with just miniscule details. She isn’t satisfied with so little she has and so much left unanswered. Would her father really be all that angry with her for all the incidents where she landed herself in trouble? Would he really be so cruel? Surely he isn’t, not when the little she’s heard of him is his noble sacrifice of parenthood for her safety. Not when he loved her so much to let her go, to give her the second chance that the insurgents could not steal from her. The insurgents, she’d think then with such poison. It was all their fault. Every monstrous thing done in attempt to destroy her family was all by their hand; they’d taken her kind mother away, made a wreck of her father and forcing him into such a heart wrenching decision to send his daughter away. But… but this wasn’t some signed contract for the rest of their lives guaranteeing separation. She wasn’t a helpless toddler anymore, and in fact, she doubted the rebels would even care about her existence anymore. It’d been so many years since; the radicals were so bold as to target significant leaders of the empire than smaller government positions. _I’m worth nothing to them anymore. Killing me brings no value for them._ Her father’s sacrifice had held up after all this time. She was alive and well, wasn’t he aware of this. She was safe as could be and surely visiting her once wouldn’t jinx that safety and expose her? _Isn’t there a value for him with me being alive?_

She knows she isn’t all knowing. She’s reminded of how young she is and how little she truly knows --- it’s the motivation within her to always want to know more, because she never knows enough --- and how difficult some situations are to comprehend. Why should the one regarding her own family be? It would leave her laying wide awake some nights --- at the time she once spent wondering of her parents, devoting her time wondering endlessly of her father when she longed for him so --- wondering that maybe, just maybe it wasn’t all about safety anymore. Maybe her superiors threatened her for the reason that they were afraid to expose to her father that she wasn’t all that perfect at all, she wasn’t up to the expectations she was supposed to meet.

_Would he… would he even be proud of me at all?_

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She’s twelve years old when she is deemed of age to be enrolled into the academy --- a tad earlier than usual, but there are always the exceptional intellectual few and, well, might as well give the poor girl something to keep her preoccupied these days than wondering about gardens out of boredom. She is also twelve years old when she learns her father’s name is a name that inspires intimidation amongst her peers, who had a tendency to avoid her. It didn’t help that she never took it upon herself to really introduce herself to other classmates, she was shy and hesitant --- no thanks to the fear instilled at her at youth by the professors --- because what if she acted up in class at a moment of recklessness? What if they told her father about that?

Nobody tells her anything, still. Nobody ever tells her why, namely because the majority fear even involvement with her at all. She’s a plague to be avoided at all costs, but is thankfully not made fun. At least, not purposely within earshot. There’s a rumor that goes around for a time by an ignorant group of friends claiming the only reason she even got enrolled was because of who her father was, as she otherwise didn’t qualify. Apparently, someone failed to inform them that the building was her practical sanctuary --- her home, in a way --- for so long. Still, she grits her teeth and restrains her anger as being reduced to a pitiful favor. A poor little motherless child without anything better to do, somehow miraculously winning over the hearts of the members of the imperial academy to slide by their expectations to let her in. Already they all demeaned her value long before she’d discovered her potential. How dare they _, how dare they._

She’d show them, she would show them all. She had the blood of a martyr and an ominously feared soldier running in her veins, to some degree that could predict the extent of her capabilities alone.

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By the end of the year not only does she excel in all her studies, but she excels above every peer with pride and glory. She’s someone to be envied --- and yet, still makes no friends as an outcome of her success --- she’s only a name on a list of potential competitors, the ones to scowl at. _Let them,_ she would think with melodious laughter. She’d savor in their jealousy with her own little smile --- always the last one to finish with a smile --- with her high achievements. But gradually, it no longer becomes an objective to impress others outside of herself. Not her father nor her peers and professors alike, not even imperial officials that could potentially take note of her progression and consider her to be automatically placed in a high rank upon graduation. Their names and faces alike --- or a lacking face for the father she hardly knew --- became dismal, forgotten memories discarded in her head for a time. No one cared to reach out for her as it was anyways, never was she the priority on anyone’s list by any means.

_Fine then_. She didn’t need them anymore than any of them cared to need her.

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More often than not, she’s found unconscious in the common room atop a data pad for a makeshift pillow; always cradled closely in some awkward position, having fallen asleep halfway through reading a paragraph of information outside of her subjects. Always going above and beyond than what was necessary, always out to prove herself to someone --- for while she knew what she wanted, no one else seemed to be able to figure her out --- and pushing herself to a point of exhaustion. People glance at her sleeping figure and react with a bittersweet smile, pitying the girl for her determination to be an overachiever as a means to preoccupy herself with all this loneliness.

_It’s a wonder_ , as some have said --- as she has overheard from conversations of others --- _if her mother had been the same._ She was always made aware of her mother’s wit and the likeness of it --- _always, always, always_ made aware of every possible aspect comparable to her mother --- but never the lonesome life led as a young student. The impression she’d always gathered in all the stills of her and her bright smile, a politician’s smile as she was told, was that she was exuberant and lively and never without entertaining company of some form. But never lonely, never even in the late hours would she lay awake with an aching hollow sense of something or someone always missing. If anything, Marcella had begun to think of herself as more of a disappointing opposite of her mother for all the aspects she’s been compared to. Perhaps she’s not as smart as she had been, she certainly didn’t think of herself as beautiful as she appeared. What if… what if she couldn’t be as brave as she’d been, to dare anger the insurgents that threatened her responsibilities and civilians? Whatever the actions she’d taken may have cost her mother her life, they hadn’t gone in vain. The troubles of Lothal were taken care of long ago or so the vague explanation went.

Marcella had nothing left of her mother, not a memory of a face or a voice. There was no one here that ever knew her personally --- there’s only her father that knew her, obviously, but like she was willing to test her luck in making communication with him --- and if anything, she’s a stranger. Yet somehow, she feels she’s already a disappointment in the making for as she may have already become to her ever distant father.

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Strangers alike had always expressed their sympathy to her regarding her mother, almost as if it were more of an obligation than out of genuine sorrow. Their apologies, though the wording would vary, essentially had all the same message. Some would think that their sympathy would eventually annoy her and that she’d begin to resent her mother for being the cause of this nuisance. But no, never. Instead, there was always a sense of sorrow within her because of the fact that she didn’t know how to be sad over the fact that she’d lost her mother. She’d lost her mother, the potentially influential figure and the physical person. But she never had the chance to know her affectionately as mother or mom or mama; what few memories she had ever carried of her had long since vanished.

Marcella handles their remarks all the same; a tongue in cheek smile, a nod of acceptance and understanding over their well-meaning intentions. Because she too is sorry, sorry for all the lost opportunities and memories alike that can never come back.

_Because of the insurgents._

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She’s thirteen when she meets a boy that’s ever so persistent in attempting to have a conversation with her. At first she’d thought it as a set up for a gag by a set of snickering boys --- taking false interest in girls appeared to be the latest humor trend for these imbeciles --- even when his conversation starters are dull and nothing of the ordinary, perhaps even pathetic. _Good morning Marcella!_ was his usual means of greeting her with a hopeful, lopsided grin. _Those were some nasty exams, eh?_ Well, nothing you can handle unlike the rest of us, or whatever else ridiculous phrase he could come up with as he quickened his pace to trail behind her. Albeit, with her making halfhearted responses or ignoring them entirely. Eventually, enough becomes enough and she resorts to a means of confronting him. She stops sharp on her heels, spinning swiftly and eyeing him down coolly --- fists clenched and a finger jabbing into his chest in accusation --- eyes narrowing and demanding to know what his intents are.

“Stars, haven’t you got anything better to do with your life? What’s it you want out of me?”

He blinked, taken back by the sharp demand and raised both hands as a means to indicate he meant no harm. That, or maybe as a way to shield himself if he was anticipating an attack out of her. People compared her to the likes of a loth cat in combat training --- it was _supposed_ to be an insight joke for her to understand, seeing as those were a native species to her home planet, which didn’t work considering she hardly lived there long enough to call it home --- unpredictable and her movements too quick to predict.

“Only… only to start a conversation.”

He admitted sheepishly and with entire honesty, a hand slowly trailing to the back of his head to scratch it nervously. Marcella lowered her guard, without lessening the intensity of her glare though, as skeptical as ever to determine that he was absolutely hopeless. She continued on a conversation with him anyways, quickly readjusting to a calm composure as though nothing had happened at all minutes before.

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His name is Tayne Mendax in casual address, but in all reality the title baron ought to be added before the name itself. Though he’s no prince, he descends from a line of a royal family that is notoriously devoted towards the Empire and resulted in them apparently being placed somewhere within the top ten of the wealthiest loyalist families of the entire galaxy. Even with a low ranking title of his that will never sit upon a throne, the rank is supported by pillars made of wealth. By default from his own birth status alone, he has more power than anyone else combined within these walls because of his influential family and their ties to associates. Yet it doesn’t seem to go through his head like that at all, where greed doesn’t surge wildly in his eyes nor is the final decision maker in how he carries himself.

“The arrogance of my family’s heads holds them up so high, without it they’ll deflate.” He explained once in bitter reflection, his expression pinched with distaste over the history of their actions and a distant look in his dark, dark eyes. Marcella became fond of them, much like his company, and could find herself unconsciously mesmerized by them. They… they were just _nice_ , that was all. Admittedly, he was a handsome boy with olive tone complexion, sharp features, dark hair and dark eyes that could never stay in one state of emotion; they lit up to match his optimistic emotions, and seemed dismal and darker than usual in his more pessimistic ones --- which was a rare sight as it was --- she found herself drawn to him, but by no means because of his name or position.

He made her laugh a sort of laughter that had nothing to do with being snarky over the victory of outsmarting her peers or one drawn from cynicism over her frustration. It was unfamiliar, sweet sounding to the ears --- to his, he claimed --- emanating from her chest in synchronization to this light, fluttering sensation that she eventually pieced together as being her racing heart. This sensation of happiness brought out by someone --- someone she could call a friend for the first time ever --- in her, because of them or something they said almost seemed to scare her. She wanted to shrink away in fear, for she was a girl that was never left content and never satisfied with anything involving herself. Always overly critical and always keen on questioning things, always maintaining a mix of somehow being grounded and untamed, how long before something like that would drive him away?

Here’s the fun fact; it doesn’t.

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She rants to him much of her frustrations regarding her studies or whenever others act so incompetent or inconsiderate. She huffs over how lately her professors have begun to shut down her persistent questioning, as if they’re afraid to answer one too many of her inquiries when she can’t even understand what there is to be afraid of. Other days are spent in mostly silence, as she studies a data pad resting atop him --- stopping to lecture him about his breathing pattern being too hot against her head as if he can possibly control that, he apologies nonetheless --- or enjoying meals together. Scratch that, the proper phrasing of that statement should be questioning the origins and identities of their meals on their trays, poking at them with their utensils and giggling like children. Children. Because that’s what they are, and always have been. No amount of exams that can be buried above their heads can change that nor force them to mature, not when it’s begun to feel as though the war is drifting further and further away for them to ever bother worrying about. That is, when they aren’t reprimanded and constantly reminded of its presence --- how engaged they are in the dedicated cause to eliminate the anarchic insurgents out to ruin everyone they hold sacred --- as if there’s a combat zone outside.

“They like to keep this war as clean as they possibly can.” Tayne commented aside once, a tad skeptical over the exaggerations regarding the devastation being everywhere.

“How? It’s war. There’s no way to properly spill blood without a drop landing on a carpet. Messiness is an inevitable necessity.” Marcella responded, furrowing her brow. Never a fan of having to recite such words like that --- it left a sour taste in her mouth, she sounded as though she was speaking like an eager warlord that looked forward to bloodshed if it weren’t for her hesitant tone --- it was still, the hard truth. But he shook his head to say otherwise.

“No, I mean… you’ll never hear of a fight within the Core systems. It’ll never be broadcasted. My brother told me everything is quick and disposed of before anyone can notice, before anything besides unconfirmed rumors can spread.”

“… How does one quietly dispatch a threat?” she asked, cocking her head to one side curiously. She almost forgot that it was likely he would hold access to this sort of information, knowing his family and all.

“I never said _that_ process was quiet. The afterthought is a hush-hush type of clean up.”

Her mouth pressed itself into the shape of a thin, tight line. She hardly spoke a word after that conversation, haunted by the imagery of warfare in all its stereotypical glory --- brash, bloodied, violent --- and a metaphorical wave with an imperial logo over sweeping the scene, all the screams of agony are hushed in an instant without anyone around to ever even hear a difference. As a matter of fact, it’s treated as though nothing ever happened. That this was how it was meant to be properly disposed of. People were meant to be properly disposed of. People being treated much like cogs in a machine as opposed to living entities, being tossed away when their use was no longer needed or no longer possible because of a complication. Suddenly, something about that thought didn’t feel so right.

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She tosses and turns in her sleep that night, restless because of the lingering disturbed thoughts in her head since that conversation. Come to think of it, how many other imperial policies of any subject are kept in silence as well? This is classified, that is confidential; how many times had she constantly heard sentences like that? What is that makes the likes of so many people --- civilians, her professors, and so on --- so frightened and submissive into silence? And why the need for it? There’s more secret keeping in business done than any one actually being informed of anything, for example the lack of news ever delivered around here. In one way, it’s as if she’s being kept in practical ignorance, as if they’re afraid to see everything whole and entirely for what it is. To see something ugly that doesn’t quite match up to everything she’s been told of the ever glorious empire she was born under.

What makes the likes of so many people so afraid of a man like her father?

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She doesn’t attend classes that day, feigning the excuse of illness by an act she’s nearly perfected in portraying. Tayne leaves a bouquet of wildflowers at the doorstep to her cell that noon with a note wishing her well, and people begin spreading childish rumors that they’re in love.

In all reality, she’d spent that entire day contemplating a choice that could single handedly cost her everything that’d ever been granted to her since arriving at this so called sanctuary. Once she’d made her choice, she followed it through with consistent and careful plotting in how to carry it out under the notion that one way or another, she would have to learn. She wanted to learn it --- the _truth_ \--- between the rumors and the reality, from what was hidden to what was in plain sight all along that she’d failed to realize.

She was going to find a way to get beyond the walls of the academy and see the world for what it really was.

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She doesn’t tell Tayne of her plot, only because she means well and wants to protect him from the risk of being discovered. If he’s discovered, he could risk being stripped of his bearings and royal title. Or Maker forbid, lose his inheritance and be disowned by his own family for his act of recklessness. She’s never exactly met his family, but judging from the few embittered stories he was ever willing to share with her, they wouldn’t handle the news of their son acting out of hand with disobedience very we all at all. What’ll be the worst that could come to her anyways? Disciplinary suspension? Being expelled? Perhaps the threat will finally be carried through in informing her father of her misbehavior and he himself will finally come along to pay a visit, care to notice of her own existence. _Ha_ , she gave a mirthless laugh. _Let’s see if he can even properly identify which female student’s his child without reading a name tag._

By dusk --- when clouds loom over and cover the stars --- she makes her careful escape, noting every corner and turn. She had knowledge beyond her years, beyond any other attendee’s years of this place. She knows it like the back of her hand, really, from all the years spent running amok as a toddler and knows who patrols which corridors when and at what point they’ll make an appearance. And she? Well the only difference since her untamed years as a toddler is the improvement in her ability to remain quiet in the process. Beyond the exit is all a foreign land to her, she jokingly contemplates leaving a trail of breadcrumbs to remember her path upon returning. She knows her time is limited, and that there are only so many excuses she’d be able to contend in an instant that could be deemed somewhat excusable. She could only pretend to be so naïve until it became painfully clear how much of an act it was.

She wasn’t truly naïve, she knew something was wrong. She just didn’t know what it was, hence why she was doing this. Why, in fact, that she needed to do this. There would be no turning back until the time was appropriate for her to return. She would be alone to fend for herself --- the concept that she was supposedly being taught --- now being put to the test officially. With trembling hands, she swallowed dryly and took another step forward out into the shadowy night, practically disappearing.

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Long ago she’d been told that all the menaces of Lothal had been dealt with after her mother’s murder. Either that person had worded the sentence wrong or perhaps she misheard it, but by menaces had it been the entirety of the _planet itself?_ Upon reaching the nearest town --- which was a sore sight for eyes as compared to the castle-like structure of the academy with its flourishing gardens --- there’s an abundance of refuges from the planet, harboring for over a decade and struggling to leave. There was either no financial means to access anywhere else or, according to a bitter wiser few, there was no place else to go. There never really was any place safe to head to to begin with.

Marcella knows better than to utter a word for fear of recognition whether be physical appearance or her voice; there was always the faintest chance there was an off duty patrol lingering at a bar that would notice a student outside the perimeters. She couldn’t do much to disguise herself, save for putting her hair in a bun and traveling with a dark colored cloak --- rarely keeping the hood up, because maker knows that’s screaming inconspicuous --- and again, she only spoke to utter a few harmless manners; a simple excuse me at best. She didn’t want to step on any of these people who just lay helpless on the streets, huddling close and shivering just to get through another night together. Her heart sunk, remembering the colder seasons that would soon be arriving and how the difficulty of getting through each night would surely increase.

The sight of one family in particular gets to her, especially seeing how young and frail the children are in their parents lap as they fitfully sleep. The rags that hung off their boney limbs and near see through ribs was a concerning sight, Marcella swallowed once more --- this time to restrain a frown and the threat of choking up at the sight. Heartless as it may have sound, she couldn’t risk drawing attention of some form by acting like a distressed damsel because of a few uneasy scenes. Still, it tugged at her heartstrings. She did not get past five footsteps from the family before turning on the heel again, removing her cloak and generously handing it to the children as a blanket. It was not worth much and the material wasn’t considerably thick, but it would make all the difference in the world for now. The parents shot her a smile and uttered a form of thanks in a language that wasn’t familiar to her ears --- other languages were always a weakness of her in subjects, always so frustrating to memorize the different pronunciations and phrases and etcetera --- so she could only respond with an awkward nod and heartfelt smile.

Still, it felt like her efforts had not been enough. But she hadn’t come here with a charity basket, nor could she make a quick return to the academy to steal a few supplies for these people. There was one too many. For every one person she could attempt to help by stealing a handful of food, there was always five more suffering in poverty. _How could the Empire stand for the sight of this? How could no one care for these people?_

Elsewhere as the scene unfolded, by the entrance of the close by bar watched an all too curious crowd. The majority of the individuals at the counter held anti-Imperial sentiments and couldn’t help but smirk at the sight of the little blue bird that seemed to wander too far from the nest; they could sniff out a student if they ever saw one, from the poise that this one carried herself and the hesitance in her step as she walked --- as if this was a newfound sight so shocking to her. What? Had she never seen any of this before? Why, of course not, the Empire practically shielded her eyes from the scene much like a mother censoring the horrors of war from their child. Jeering whispers were shared --- some arguably louder than others, due to all the drinking --- which eventually caught rise to the attention of the bar owner that ended up turning around and telling them to knock it off.

Violence against any bucket head was one thing. Violence against the children that didn’t know any better --- no matter how stupid they were for wandering far to practically walk into the trouble --- was never tolerated under any exceptions. There were groans and huffs of protest that quickly died down, deciding it wasn’t worth it to get kicked out for whining about one little brat. Besides, this was one of the few places around here with semi-decent heat.

The bartender gave a sigh, acknowledging to himself once more that he was getting too old for this. His sentiments against the empire had increased tenfold in the past decade, if only to account for all the worsening horrors that had happened. Leaving Lothal was… the hardest decision, although the best for his own survival, it was all too difficult knowing one could never look back. And the chances of ever returning were… impossible, at least knowing what sort of horrid wasteland it had been reduced to when deemed a scrapped project. The imperials never bothered with those sort of sections of the planet --- regardless of their own xenophobic sentiments and dismay over the grand numbers of refuges --- they’d all been pushed away and confined into the eyesore areas anyways that no one ever bothered. Poverty and death went hand in hand and for all anyone dressed in the uniforms could care, they could all die off and there’d be no mourning. The imperials weren’t welcomed here anymore than they wanted to ever even be here to begin with, so what was the explanation for the young one wandering about aimlessly?

Old Jho --- who had indeed earned the nickname of _old_ by his appearance --- glanced ahead at the sight of the student, a girl, that had since given up her cloak to the refuges. That act alone was enough of an indication to tell that perhaps she wasn’t quite like the brats brainwashed with propaganda nonsense like the customers had assumed her to be. Anyone with a good conscience simply couldn’t dismiss these sights as problems with future resolution projects in the making --- there’d never be a solution coming, not from the empire --- there was no way someone hopelessly devoted to the empire could dismiss these sights. The fact that she’d gone out of her way to go beyond the borders of whichever school she came from told another story, adding to the ever growing mystery of the why factor. Though his eyesight had begun to fail him since the past five years, he narrowed them to the sight of hair that was clearly yellow. No, no, as she continued to follow the aimless path she took she happened to come closer towards the dim lighting of the small makeshift bar and he could see a touch of red in it. The features became clearer, more distinct, and he only realized now that he’d since stopped his motion of wiping the countertop of the bar or listening to any of the voices and their conversations --- whatever they may be about, whoever may have been calling him --- because clearly he’d gone mad.

Otherwise he was staring at some form of a ghost of Maketh Tua, that poor Imperial minister that was long dead and gone.

_“Jho? Hey!_ Hey Jho!”

He shook his head and just like that she had turned to leave, like a ghost disappearing from his sight and into the dark streets once more.

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Marcella could hardly breathe, hardly speak. Her chest felt compressed and heavy against her as each and every breath she took was light as a feather, somehow maintaining balance on her feet but feeling the color drain from her face. These dreadful sights were too much to take in all at once, and with each turn at every street corner they didn’t relent nor showed a sign of relief of some form. Her stomach twisted itself into knots. She knew, oh she knew now the truth. All the horrors without the actual sight of war imaginable; despair, starvation, poverty, abandonment, fear, death. It was all very much real and right before her very eyes, not even a few miles beyond the walls of her own precious little sanctuary. By this rate she had since forgotten her purpose and nearly forgot the limit there was with time in being out this long, until the clouds began to slowly move away. The sky appeared to be lighting up subtly, that was as good of a hint as it got. _I have to go, now_.

She’d been continuously trailing along, still lost in her thoughts, that she failed to notice another stranger passing by and the two collided into one another. She stumbled back onto the ground, if only because the other person carried greater weight to force her back, and she struggled to pick herself up. The other person was affected anyways, muttering a series of what she could assume were swear words in frustration.

“I’m --- I’m so sorry.” she quickly apologized, blurting out in an instant. Except she had specifically attempted to distinguish herself away from her being an obvious student of the academy. Dare she attempt it, she’d actually tried to cover her voice up with what would have been her native Lothal accent. The problem being that she couldn’t quite remember what those accents even sounded like to begin with.

The stranger gave a loud, hearty laughter emanating deep from his belly. Cold eyes looked directly at her and shook his head, all the more amused by the mere sight of her alone. By now she was beginning to get nervous, wondering if she’d somehow literally walked into a fight. But luckily, violence didn’t seem to be the intent of the other person. Instead, he crossed his arms and gave a bit of advice; “Kid, drop that accent. You’re not fooling anyone, you sound worse than those wannabe Core politicians ‘round here.”

Marcella didn’t quite catch the reference, and could only assume he meant exactly as he said. What? Was there really something wrong with the accents of the politicians? She’d never heard a native born Core accent and what it was supposed to truly sound like; she could only assume that what she had always heard for all her life was practically the correct version. Apparently, she’d been hearing wrong. One of these days she would have to take note and somehow find a recording of a legitimate Core accent in a speech in order to perfect and --- _oh forget it! Who gives a damn about the sound of your voice around here anyways?_

She gave a quick nod, licking her dry lips and never once making another verbal response. They were just a pair of strangers --- one more aware of whom the other truly was --- passing on by without coincidence, nothing more and nothing less. Although the man continued to chuckle and shake his head, though the tone of his laughter slowly sounding more bitter than before.

“… kid looks like the Butcher of Lasan’s brat if I ever saw ‘em.”

Marcella stopped in her tracks, her attention caught by the strange muttered remark. She pursed her lips, wondering if it was right to tempt fate in carrying a conversation like that. The words tugged at her ears, practically screaming at her. It was something she knew she would never learn from anywhere, that not even Tayne could tell her with all the intel that his own family could provide. With one deep breath, she slowly turned around and cleared her throat.

“Excuse me sir? Erm… who… who is that?”

He stopped in his own tracks at the sound of her voice resonating once more. Apparently, he hadn’t been anticipating on her listening, probably because of that old quip about how Imperial students hear information through one ear and it quickly runs out through the other if it isn’t propaganda. Or perhaps he’d been a tad bit obnoxious and could’ve made that remark beneath his breath, or even kept to his thoughts. For all he knew, the kid really could’ve been his. Wasn’t there a rumor circulating about that a long time ago? It wasn’t like he had the time of the day to give a care at all about the gossip of little families between ranks of the stinking empire, let alone the worst of the worst. Still, he wouldn’t just leave the kid hanging. Especially not when somehow there was still a little bit of him left to be shocked over the fact that she was kept ignorant about that. What? Had the Empire suddenly decided that wasn’t something worth bragging over after all? Don’t tell him, that they’d suddenly gotten in touch with an inner sense of shame and become humble since? _Please._

“How old are you, kid?” he couldn’t help but ask, sounding a little degrading in the remark. It wasn’t like this was her fault for not knowing. For all he knew, it might’ve not even had anything to do with whatever the academy had yet to teach her or ever even would. Maybe she wasn’t even born at the time. Just from looking at the poor thing --- who looked like a pale, frail little ghost --- wandering around aimlessly like she’d never even been here before, he decided she probably didn’t know at all.

“Fourteen.” she answered calmly. It was only half a truth though. She would be fourteen within the next six days. But it was close enough for her to decide to go along with the answer. Was he deciding as to whether or not she couldn’t handle the truth or not? Because she could, she could. And if not, then so be it she would learn to deal with it if she had to do. She even decided to let him know by adding; “And I’m not afraid.”

He raised his brows, interested by the insight of that comment, but not necessarily impressed by her act.

“Everyone’s afraid kid, one way or another.”

He’d been like her too once, long ago. But everyone becomes afraid of something somehow, the empire ensures that through some form. They’re practically limitless in anything they’re capable of doing to strike fear into someone’s heart. Gods, he couldn’t help but think at the answer to her age. She was either just being born or somewhere around the age of a few months old when it all happened. If she weren’t some stranger --- had she been an old friend’s daughter or a niece of his maybe --- he’d place a hand atop her shoulder and guide her beside him to tell. He wouldn’t, knowing she probably wouldn’t react well, and maker knows he’d already entered into creepy borderlines since asking her age for no reason. Instead, he merely sighed.

“You got some time to spare, kid?” he gave a shrug, that this would be a bit of a lengthy conversation. Marcella paused with uncertainty at the question, glancing up to the sky and contemplating how much time she had. What little was left and how much she’d spent already as it was. Speed was always an advantage of hers anyways, she was quick on her feet when motivated. _To the deepest circle of Corellian hell with the academy._ The only reason she’d even have to feel a form of concern regarding the academy was Tayne and whether or not he’d be concerned with her missing. But she could explain everything later.

She gave a nod, walking straight into a conversation that perhaps the two year old version of herself --- the one that had once obliviously loved the stranger that was her father --- would have wished to never hear.

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“What did you say was the name of the one who gave the order?”

“Kallus. One of those big shot ISB agents.”

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She returns back to the academy by the time it’s nearly broad daylight, when her presence surely would have been noticed by now. Perhaps it’s the lack of response to her disappearance that worries her more than if they already had. She could dodge a search patrol squadron, or at least she was fairly confident in her abilities. It was all too strange, for a girl who had just dismissed the value of the being caught by the academy meaningless as compared to a single significant conversation. She’d chosen wisely, that much she knew. That much and more she knew now. So much more. When every single word that had been carefully and gently explained by the hesitant stranger --- as if he didn’t want to frighten her in telling her a horror story --- as if a tone or different word term somehow lightens the truth any easier. As if it eases the tremor in her soul and bones or renders the ill feeling lurking in her, it doesn’t cease the ringing in her ears or bring back the color to her cheeks.

_The blood of a martyr and a **monster.**_ That was what she truly was. Her mother had been a martyr; oh she’d been perfectly assured by the Lothal native. Long before the cities there had been rendered to ash and fire they’d done the same to her mother. By the insurgents, she had asked and he gave her a horrified look as if she’d spoken of blasphemy. And apparently, she had. Somehow a part of her felt terribly, terribly foolish for even suggesting then before the truth became apparent. Because it was surely apparent by now after everything she had seen and heard by now. Surely she would come to realize that she’d been raised in lies in a so called sanctuary. She hadn’t been truly protected, only shielded in ignorance. The insurgents had tried to save her, her mother was apparently terrified for her life for some form of failure because of the uprising and riots. Marcella shook with unease beyond her control by this point --- nearly slipping up and becoming careless, nearly being caught in the process of returning to her quarters --- she was so terribly distracted by a sickened heart and head. There was a lonesome feeling her mother had that she now knew of, the one until the very end of hopelessness and foreboding doom hanging over her head. She was condemned to die for circumstances beyond her control, the brutality of it escalated because she defected. That word --- defector --- the ink of the word like stains of assault from the man’s mouth onto her. By the standards she was taught in her classes, by all the praise she’d been told by everyone, her mother was a martyr and no defector. Her mother was loyal and upheld beyond the grave. To even dare say such a thing…

But she would not argue. Not when that sick, sickening feeling got ahold of her and twisted her from the inside out. Her mother had tried to run, run away and they killed her nonetheless. She was long caught in their clutches and trapped, left screaming for help that came too late. For all she knew, she’d tried to do everything she could in for her daughter to avoid such a fate. To avoid all of this --- and her mother had failed, oh she had failed, but only in a sense. She’d only failed for a time, for now she knew better. She knew everything and she knew something had to be done.

No longer did she picture a boisterous and noble warrior for a father or a distant stranger ruined by grief over the loss. No, the stranger in the streets had sadly admitted to her of a rumor he’d heard --- for he’d left Lothal before it all went to hells --- something about a revelation with his involvement in it. The stranger, for all his knowledge he seemed to carry and inform her of, didn’t seem to piece together that his sarcastic assumption had been true though. She was their child. She was the child of Minister Maketh Tua and this monstrous Agent Kallus. She could’ve screamed it out to him if he couldn’t see past it with his own pair of eyes as to who she was. Couldn’t he begin to see that as she shook with every continuing sentence that he was painting out a picture of long needed truth regarding mommy and daddy dearest?

Her ears are still ringing and so she fails to catch the call of her name by someone’s voice, and she hardly cares as to who it is. She ignores and continues, a pale and wretched ghost venturing back into her cell. If there was ever a time to feign an illness now was better than before, given her current state of appearance looking worse than before. She continues and it continues as well, persisting despite her ringing and growing more concerned with each time. She’s nearly at the door when she feels an arm grab her and for a moment she’s convinced the stranger from the streets has somehow followed her to warn her. Foolish girl, she could somehow picture him saying. _Why are you running back here, this is the exact stuff that gets the whole lot of you killed eventually? Marcella? Marcella?_

”Marcella!” he shouted. He being not the stranger, but Tayne. Oh Tayne, her heart sunk with a sense of relief and subtle ease. His grip on her forearm had lessened, with it being stern to begin with only because he was worried and she hadn’t slowed down once. She turned to face him, as pale of a wreck as before and slowly returning to reality only for his sake. He looked dreadfully worried, perhaps mistaking her shaken state for still being ill. He cared, though. In spite of every awful, dreadful thing in this world around her and in this surrounding galaxy and of all the awful things she’d heard he still cared.

Her ears had ceased their ringing, just in time for her to make out the movement of the shape of his mouth to be the words of “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

Impulsively, without any warning or indication, she grabbed him by the collar of his uniform and kissed him for much needed relief. She figured she probably tasted like the salt of the crisp air and the tears that’d unconsciously fallen down her face after the horror stories she’d been told, and imagined her lips nearly being blue because of how cold the night had been. She even cared to remember her cloak, that silly and flimsy little thing that she’d handed off. And he, he tasted of warmth and relief much like the sunlight and wildflowers of her youth. He tasted like all the things she missed and all the pieces of ignorant happiness that a part of her almost wished she could turn back to.

But she could never turn back, she always knew this.

She’d pulled away the moment that the shock had worn off from him, when he’d only begun to raise his arms to sink them into the lengths of her hair. He was breathless, mouth agape and dark eyes wide. In another situation, in any other predicament than this she might’ve even laughed at how he struggled to comprehend and respond. But she couldn’t force her lips back into some form of a smile --- not even a fake one for his sake, to spare him some relief from this stress --- and as much as she’d not wanted him involved earlier, some part of her knew she’d need him for this.

“That was…” he began to say, still struggling to find the adjective other than nice, as she cut him off.

“I need your help.”

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The two had ushered themselves inside her cell and practically sealed themselves away. However unusual it might’ve seemed for the pair to be absent from their classes, considering the high achievers that they were --- more so she, at least --- she was still faking an illness and he… he could simply say he caught it as well. Even if there was the risk of fueling the rumors about them being in love. Perhaps… perhaps that wasn’t as much of a rumor anymore as it might’ve been perceived to be. But that was a childish thought to dwell on. Neither had the time anymore for such childish things, at least not from the moment that she had sealed him with a kiss and dragged him inside to discuss the matter of what she’d learned. The risk of it all had enveloped the two of them permanently, no longer were they children in this moment. They were at a choice to become pawns in warfare, shielded by ignorance, or to take matters into their own hands.

Perhaps the academy had been right about something all along. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, they’d been forced into one sense of adulthood than she’d originally wanted to. _We’re not children anymore_.

She expected him to lash out to some degree. For all the willingness and dewy eyed expressions he could ever give to her in their conversations, this would sure be one to snap him out of it. The fact that she had faked her own illness and snuck out of the borderlines of the academy – such a heinous act, an unthinkable rule to ever break especially for her. She, Marcella Tua, notorious overachiever who practically fixated herself on perfection and avoided trouble like others avoided her. He merely raised his brows in shock, struggling to let the thought settle in his mind or so it would seem that she’d done such a thing. Then he’d laughed, he _laughed_ over the prospect of it in absolute disbelief despite believing every word of it. Of course, such laughter immediately silenced itself by her steel glare, evidently not amused by the prospect.

With her hands folded in her lap, she straightened her posture and spoke with a voice as grave as could be; “I want to make my father pay.”

That was when all the humor within his face had drained out entirely. It wiped itself off effortlessly, his eyes blinking. His swarthy features studied her, wanting to see if she was as absolutely serious as her voice. Her expression matched her voice and proposition perfectly. It was a prospect comparable to treachery, to defection itself. There was a change in the air, a chill resonating between the two and indeed, they were no longer children anymore. Tayne spoke after a pause that felt like it lasted years.

“I have the resources to make this possible.” He stated, even without even knowing why she wanted to make her father pay. Or perhaps he did know, that much she wondered. Had she been like all the others who avoided her at a time because of his notable reputation? Now was not the time to hold bitter grudges against petty mistakes from long before.

“I know you do.” she answered in that all-knowing tone she would normally respond to in more… lighthearted situations and conversations that the two had ever had in all the time prior to this moment. It was almost uneasy to hear the tone spew from her mouth, to speak in a voice as light as ice in a situation. If it were any form of ice, it would be black --- uneasy and treacherous, with waters below threatening to drown.

Nobody, not even Marcella herself really, knew what she was truly capable of. Maybe now would be the time to learn if she had monster’s blood in her.

“You realize if we do this.” he began, his arms spreading wide and gesturing to around the room to whatever plotting conversations were bound to follow. “If we go through with this and something backfires --- “

“It won’t.” she interrupted.

“But if it does, we will be caught. We will be punished. And you and I are no strangers to what sort of punishments would be possible for us.” Tayne Mendax did not need his family knowledge to be aware of any exquisite knowledge not commonly known by fellow peers to make such a statement. There was always a time to end the conversation now and leave it as it is. To just pretend that the night before that she’d spent wandering about the streets and speaking to ghosts of a planet that would never be called her home planet had never even happened, for no one else would know. Tayne could keep a secret close to his soul, to his grave and never say a word. There was that much she had to guarantee in her trust into him. She could become the ignorant little child that her father had probably intended her to be after everything he’d done.

She gave a nod, understanding of all the risks laid out before. Of all the consequences which could follow if failure was an option. But if was still an if and it would remain only an if. She would not fail, she never did before after all.

It was as if he could read off the expression off her face alone. He didn’t need any vocal confirmation to his remark after all. He dismissed the anticipation for a verbal answer, exhaling loudly, like relieving a weight off his chest. He always knew there was passion in her. She never failed to demonstrate it in anything --- in her voice, in her interests, in her subjects --- but never in this, but only because he never thought it’d be this.

“You really want to do this, huh?” he couldn’t help but ask, his voice laced with a hint of amusement even when he knew this was no laughing matter.

This time she spoke.

“I know what my father’s done. And I want to hear it from him first.”

Or, at the very least, she’d like some form of a confession in the confrontation that she would _make_ happen.

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X

[ NEXT CHAPTER ]

_“Did you love her?”_

_“I loved you, Marcella.”_

_“Even when you know I’m going to kill you?”_

_“You’re not going to do it.”_

_“Hmph. I wonder if mother ever hoped the same from you.”_


	3. Chapter 3

X

He would always laugh and say  
‘Remember when we used to play?’   
Bang bang, I shot you down   
Bang bang, you hit the ground   
Bang bang, that awful sound   
Bang bang, I used to shoot you down

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_Marcella wasn’t heavy in her arms, yet as Maketh soldiered on she found herself constantly shifting and adjusting for her as she frantically made her way down the corridors. She could avert the eyes of those that she passed, the ones that all watched her piteously because to them she was already dead at this point. Her heart was hammering against her chest, knowing clearly how little time there was and how few her dwindling options existed; this had been her most desperate, although arguably, her most cruel option to have turned to._

_She had wordlessly entered the nursery to find her daughter dozing, gently rousing her from slumber as Maketh lifted her, taking what little time there already was to allow a slight of a smile on her mouth; Marcella was oblivious as always, as she’d once been essentially, and did not weep as she stirred. Instead, her daughter had looked to her with intelligent eyes and for a minute, Maketh dared to wonder if she would even speak. She uttered a few coherent phrases here and there, as her governess had recently reported, and the progressive news was taken in a bittersweet light in knowing she’d missed it._

_And a sickening feeling lurched in her, knowing how there were those conspiring to take her away from the chance of ever seeing anything of a future with her only child._

_She knew she would find him here, but it brought her no relief and if she’d been searching for any at the moment, she would not find it from the expression upon his reaction; for a second he was visibly startled, as if there was some part of him that simply expected her to lay down and die in a submissive state with a parting of words as cruel as his. Or perhaps it was the sight of his toddler daughter in her arms, the same one he had yet to pay a visit to in quite some time, and it was then he appeared to connect the dots. Ah, she intended to turn their daughter --- the only sweet, forsaken little thing between them --- into a weapon against him. He did not verbally react, not even to address her as her still standing minister title, only exhaling a small breath quietly but it was enough for her to wince. Maketh knew the reaction would be violent, he wouldn’t be pleased at her pulling a little scene like this. Thankfully, it wasn’t within public view, so to the few nearby witnesses that could appear at any chance would think of it as a petty domestic dispute. Ha,_ _some part of him had laughed._ And apparently they’ll think it was the occasion to bring your child to work.

_It had been no laughing matter for her, not when she stood on her last whims with maker knows how long left to live. Now was not the time to think of the splitting ache in her chest, not when she should’ve known better all along about him. She won’t place her faith onto him having an epiphany, a revelation of some sort to realize he ever had a font of affection for her. Not when she knows he doesn’t and that he never did, but surely there’s something he holds for their daughter? He won’t listen to her pleas alone, he wouldn’t consider straying from any order given by the empire --- their empire, the same one she held with high regards as it turned on her --- for her; the lowly native whore, the words left a bitter sting in her mouth to think. She could see the piercing insult in his eyes at this point, that whatever contempt he pretended to hold for her for the sake of publicity and their daughter was leaving. That was all he had ever thought of her. But maybe he would care for Marcella, maybe he would care to realize it would be a horrible thing to leave her motherless like him. This wasn’t about love, not the sort of love that two people can share between them, not that silly little thing that never existed between them. This was about something else, this was about her and in that instant they both knew._

_“Kallus.”_

_It was a blatant, albeit awkward greeting in these given circumstances. She was willing to wait, by the smallest chance that a proper conversation would follow. It never did. Instead, he’d already started to turn from her, and she followed suite with the surprisingly quiet infant in her arms._

_“Kallus! Please!”_

_She called after him breathlessly, yet he continued to stride away as though he were rendered deaf. Perhaps he was, in the sense that he surrounded himself with his own vanity. Perhaps he considered himself to be above to the dealings of a doomed politician --- of a lowly girl that he never had the plans to take for a wife --- and the unwanted bastard brat of theirs. Don’t you understand? her conscience cried out in despair._ He holds no love for you or her.

_“For the love of our child, for the love of Marcella have mercy!”_

_This was it; the moment that all the pretending had been tossed aside, when the two could no longer continue to dwell on tedious terms of uncertainty and act as though these imperials methods weren’t as cruel as they’d witnessed. Where she’d no longer stand in submissive silence and turn away from the sight of him, resisting the temptation to think of him as her would be executioner. There wasn’t a weapon pointed directly at her, let alone a look of intent and harm upon his face, only a cold indifference with the efforts to ignore her as best as he could. Mercy? What even was that she was asking for? For him to recall the personal relations shared between them --- if that is what she could call them at best --- and to consider an alternative solution. He, the man who savagely sneered over the betrayal and execution of a former friend alike, spare clemency for her just because of an accidental affair that bore an unwanted child?_

_“I don’t know what you intend to ask of me, minister.” he finally responded, never once breaking stride in his pace. His clenched fists seemed to tighten, growing increasingly annoyed, but there was a trace of sadistic enjoyment in adding the last phrase; “Nor do I care. “_

_“She needs us both, Kallus.” Her voice was strained yet bold, daring to bring yet another implication of Marcella. She was the key to the small chance at hand of salvation for her mother, and she was the key to her father breaking down and submitting into helping get that chance. It was why he was in such a rush, it was why his voice was dismissive and why he didn’t dare turn around to face Maketh, not when it meant knowing he would have to face his daughter around. There was a glimmer of hope yet that waited after all, and suddenly the grip on her daughter tightened and her rapid heartbeat went impossibly faster. Maketh had opened her mouth once again to speak but this time it seemed both were aware of this, and in an instant he’d done the unexpected by turning on his heels to face her. He pointed accusingly towards her, just missing at jabbing her chest in full force._

_“Is this supposed to be some kind of joke? Drawing a sympathy crowd instead of accounting for your failures? **Your** failures! Not mine!” Just like that, the cold composure had vanished. It was replaced by a temper seen only by those that ever humiliated or defeated him, and it was then that it occurred to her that Marcella was a marking stain of embarrassment. _

_“No! I loved you!” The words slipped past her mouth before she could stop them. As if that could counteract those accusations, as if suddenly this would change everything and cause his hardened features to soften. Of course it wouldn’t. And loved was a term purposely used in past tense, referring to a time that was becoming so distant in memory -- - lost to all the stress and despair she was surrounded in. To think, she used to worry over the forthcoming day that he wouldn’t come back to her. She’d proven her proven subconscious partly wrong, given he was still alive; but the man she’d come to known, the one she came to love once was at a lost. Or perhaps, the sickening thought teased her, she’d never known him at all to begin with._

_“Don’t think to drag me into this, don’t think that I actually care enough to want to help you!” And his words were so full of spite, with absolute genuine spite straight towards her as his eyes met hers in case if there was any doubt. A joke, the roaring words left a ringing in her ears. The whole display was a melodramatic attempt and she was a mere nuisance; years from now they’ll speak of the scene, he’ll boaster about with hearty laughter about how pathetic she looked running after him down the corridors. Her cheeks burned, not by embarrassment, but by anger as tears began to well in her eyes._

_“Besides,” he concluded coldly and regained to the professional composure once more of finality and indifference to her. “These are circumstances beyond my control, minister.”_

_“I beseech you!” she cried desperately as his back turned one last time. Her legs were weighed down like concrete, frozen in spot and weakened by the lashes of his words, unable to pursue after him. It would be a waste of energy anyways, the attempt had already gone up in flames from the moment she’d called out his name. And so her arms adjusted, cuddling her daughter closer and burying her head gently against the crook of her neck to weep softly; her poor, oblivious little daughter who was only disturbed by the noises of the argument, unable to comprehend the words or the situation, unaware of how little time was left for her mother._

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“I’m told you’re one of the highest achieving students within the academy’s history.” It was an attempt at a conversation starter, one of many failed attempts as the pair had otherwise dined in silence. Her professors’ treatment of her had changed throughout the entire day concerning this occasion --- it’s to do with fear, afraid that she would speak lowly of one of them to _daddy dearest_ that would see to it something be done --- and the prime example being that the pair were permitted to dine in private, the luxurious space normally reserved for none other than the professors themselves. The size of the room itself was unusually large and vast, and appropriately spacious enough to create a distance between the already estranged father and daughter.

So far, Marcella had preoccupied herself by stabbing the contents of her meal with a utensil and ignoring any comments by her father; she was not moved by even the slight praise, something which once upon a time she would’ve gladly spent her time bragging about. Anything to surely please and impress her dear father, like the poor little fool she’d been once. Even if it was all too tempting to praise herself --- it was a guilty pleasure, one that couldn’t be sated by all the showering praises by others as it was --- she distracted her mind with offhand thoughts; _I wonder if Tayne ever dined in a place as grand as this_. He was a boy of royal blood, of course he’d been in extravagant environments --- far more grand than this --- for all his life, if anything this would probably be a considerable downgrade in the eyes of his relatives.

But, some part of her knew the jabbing attempts would only continue. She gave a frustrated huff, knowing that it would only persistent so long as she refused to answer. Without glancing up at him, she replied; “I only hope it pleases you, father.”

The light air of bitterness by the word _pleases_ betrayed her intents at mock sweetness. It was too late to even bother at the attempt anyways, their first meeting had not gone off well. He was no fool, he should have known right then and there that she was going to hold some form of resentment over his head. But as far as he knew it was because of his absence, or because of the lack of affection he’d ever shown her in all her life. Granted, he was paranoid yes. He did go out of his way to have her sent to a disclosed, off world base to ensure her safety after her mother’s _assassination_. But with an isolated life like this, there was no way any sort of truth or exploitation could get past these walls and taint the illusion he’d created. He was here to investigate --- or, excuse her presumption, to _personally visit her_ \--- not to dissuade her from the truths she’d learned.

At least she’d gotten what she wanted; another shadow of silence had fallen over the pair. Kallus chewed on the side of his mouth, biting at his tongue and selecting his words carefully; in all his years of experience as an agent --- said experience suddenly dissipating now when he needed it most --- of all the clients and targets ever assigned, somehow handling a girl of the tender age of fourteen was next to impossible. Suddenly, it felt like there was a panel standing before him with different colored buttons; each a very different option of a sentence to say next, and depending on the choice would lead the conversation in another direction. And while there was nothing that was explicitly fatal, surely one was the equivalent of a trap door.

For some reason, it seemed so difficult to simply respond with an ‘ _I am_ ’. It wasn’t as though he’d be lying through his teeth, there was no reason to bear any disappointment towards her except for her impudent attitude. And just who was he to judge, anyhow? Sure, he’s changed since the years spent at the academy himself and is fully aware of the owed respect towards his superiors. It would cost him his own life otherwise for any immature act of defiance if he felt otherwise, but deep down some part of him won’t verbally admit --- only acknowledge in thought --- that there were those he didn’t devote any worship towards. There were some, while high in their rankings, that didn’t quite fulfill his high expectations as towards what sort of an individual they were. Some were undeserving; some had it easier simply because of their backgrounds. Oh, how he loathed those of the royal backgrounds save for the exception of Baron Rudor, who had earned more than his keep in taking on the duty as a TIE fighter pilot, otherwise nicknamed a death sentence. No, the others manipulated through their means of wealth and influence to get where they stood today, all the power and none of the difficulties or consequences that would normally come with earning such a promotion. Maketh had always vented about those being let off easy, in spite of her tolerance and respect for Governor Pryce, it was somehow never her fault for any of Lothal’s predicaments. Looking back on that, he wonders… he wonders if he ever did get around to telling her that the governor had been eliminated months prior to her own downfall, a symbol of failure in the empire’s eyes and…

“Father?”

Her voice cut through his thoughts like a knife. For a brief moment, he was overwhelmed by a sensation that he couldn’t explain. Then, he recognized it for what it was. It was a shock that he never experienced before, one that almost seemed to excite him. For the first time throughout this entire event, it was now her turn to speak without it being a response. Perhaps she would ask him about something, anything, and in that instant he could care any less if it was something on classified manners; it would be a long awaited conversation at least, and when his head snapped up with all undivided attention towards her, immediately his hopes were shut down by the indifferent expression on her face. He could read hesitancy in her eyes --- and there was a flash of her mother in them --- as if there was news to tell.

“I… _hate_ to cut your visit short.” she began, the true hesitancy on the word hate. The corners of his mouth twitched, a bitter and understanding smile plastered on his face. Somehow, she was putting all and yet none of her effort into pretending that she could tolerate him. Her professors had remarked about her having a politician’s charm, which to some degree he hoped was true, because she’d never make the cut as an agent like him the way she attempts to lie.

“Yes.” He agrees in acknowledgement, stroking his chin pensively. “We were getting along splendidly as it was.”

That was a joke, the intent was _supposed_ to be a joke at least. But once again, the tone of his voice had been too harsh, the choice of words too bitter. The hesitancy on her face had been the only touch of warmth on it, and as soon as he finished speaking it all dropped; once again, there was coldness on her face as if she were ever sorry for even trying.

“The Mendax family is to be hosting one of their imperial balls and I…” there is another brief pause in her voice, which is light and breathless between joy and a mix of her own disbelief. “I am to accompany my inviter as his date.”

Time seems to stop between the two. He has unknowingly leaned in closer, as if this is a joke and at any moment now she’s going to give the punchline to this misleading joke. She inwardly winces, anticipating an outburst if she takes him for the man of reputation that she’s only known of for so long in childhood. Because of this, the two are driven in a circle once again that leads to nothing but unresolved silence. She isn’t telling a lie either. Tayne had invited her, with every meaningful intent to have her accompany him arm in arm, to have his family treat her as though she were one of them. As a matter of fact, his own mother had encouraged the matter, when he must’ve mentioned her in one of their holo conversations.

_“But I’m not of royal blood I’m not even really wealthy either. I’m… ”_

_“Relax, ‘Cella. My family doesn’t obsess over that. If they did, by this rate we would be practicing incest at this rate.”_

Still, it had left her in a state of sputtering shock. This had even been before she kissed him, before the two of them had gotten together and conspired. In the weeks since, nothing had changed nor had there been an indication that he changed his mind. The more that she dwelled on it over time, the more she slowly began to realize that --- despite his well-known status --- it was quite likely that she was just about his only friend in the academy.

“The Mendax family?” he inquired, repeating her words slowly and skeptically with a raised brow. Yes, she knew it now that he thought of this as being a joke. Or perhaps, he thought the idea of her having a privilege like this all on her own as being a joke. What? Had he been expecting a desperate, friendless daughter that depended on his influences to get by? Did he not think that she could accomplish things on her own outside of her academics? Maybe she was over exaggerating, yes, maybe she was. Maybe she was getting even angrier over the prospect of this only because it was him. Her father, who at the very least of all his heinous crimes, had never even been there for her. He, who tossed her aside like a useless soldier rather than family, expecting her to survive on her own and then actually having doubt that she did.

“Yes.” she answered hotly, her cheeks burning while it took every ounce of strength in her to restrain herself. “A son of theirs, the future Baron, is a classmate of mine.”

In all his years in his line of work, she could only assume that he had never gone as far as to associate with an actual king. She imagined that an occupation in the ISB agency had limits on its gratification and rewards, and it certainly didn’t include a list of extravagant friends. She was only fourteen, only a student who had yet to even serve the beloved Empire yet --- her choice of words so bitter, she was practically a Rebel in a sense with their symbol a tattoo beneath her skin --- and with ties to one of the most powerful families in the Empire. By some sense, she had _beaten_ him. She was better than him. Perhaps the skepticism was only a mask he wore to disguise the self-shame and anger at himself, and that maybe the doubt had to do with denial.

Now more than ever, she wanted nothing better than to spite him. To the five year old Marcella, doing such a thing was a suicide mission she wouldn’t dare risk, and so she always stayed in line. She wanted to see his smug features fall fast and without thinking, without planning it, the next set of words flew out so fast with defiant pride that could’ve been mistaken even to _her_ as the truth.

“And he loves me.”

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And just like that, those triumphant words would have a cost to them. Marcella was bold to ask for the worst of her father’s spite, and so she had received it. The mocking doubt so transfixed on his face quickly became something else, something unfamiliar yet feared by most; a crooked scowl on his mouth, a mix of anger and immediate disapproval, that made his aged features look quite ugly --- because yes, earlier she could begrudgingly admit that he did have some handsome qualities still --- she knew she’d pushed him past limits of harmless jealousy. Yes, how dare she. How dare she pursue her own happiness, finding a life without him. It was perfectly acceptable for him to cast her aside and selectively pay attention to her when it pleased him, but for her to do the same? She had no authority, no absolute right. It was all coming together clearly for her now --- for her overworked, paranoid mind jumping to logical conclusions --- that his reaction wasn’t one out of paternal protectiveness.

Just like that, she abruptly excuses herself without wanting to carry on another word of this or without wanting to be in the same room as him. Her ears are ringing, they fail to pick up the buzzing outside of the white noise that is her father’s protesting; he’s calling her name, objecting to her taking off on him. She can only guess what he was saying, but she likes to imagine that it was something along the lines of;

_MARCELLA! GET BACK HERE!_

But off she goes, marching past anyone and everyone in her path. She ignores them, as they ignore her, and some little voice is speaking to her from the back of her mind and suggesting that these people are merely hallucinations from her own blind anger. So what was undoubtedly real anymore, she can’t help but wonder? _Tayne_ , another voice answers with breathless relief. He was real --- and probably elsewhere, probably out dining at the cafeteria as everyone else would be --- she knew where his resting quarters were, it wasn’t like the security measures were that restrictive these days. Well, maybe she ought to rephrase that. They are typically strict on ordinary students, but a boy of royal blood and an orphan girl paraded about with a background of martyrdom are likely exceptions by the word of wary professors.

Idly, she wonders if her father has been following her. She won’t risk the chance of turning around to be sure, as if that will jinx her head start of advantage of an escape. It occurs to her that all these thoughts --- that Tayne has once again --- become a distraction in her head. She can deny it all she wants with her claims that the frightened little girl is gone now, but maybe there’s a surviving piece that still lingers. _Yes, Marcella, you are afraid and you know it_. And just what of? Why, her father of course. A displaced fear that has yet to change after all this time, when the murmured whispers and fearful exchanges between professors meant something more, when the truth sounded as scary as the scene must have been, isn’t it understandable to be afraid?

She wonders… she wonders if her mother was ever afraid of him like that.

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_I can’t be afraid_ , she decides in less than a minute. _Not anymore. Not if I want answers._

It must be easy to kill, that’s her presumption. After all, her father has made living out of it. No, more than that, he’s created a legacy out of it. She imagines it’s the tension before the actual fatality being frightening, that’s what distracts others, that’s what makes them abort the idea. It could be easy to simply kill her father in theory, all distractions and complications aside. Just the basic idea. But she’d be without answers, without any justifications that she somehow knows she needs --- because she knows she’s never going to hear any of it from her mother.

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For someone who makes herself promise not to be afraid any longer, it seems as though she has a difficult time carrying out those promises. She cries, despite everything, she cries even though she loathes the fact that she’s broken down crying even though she hasn’t cried in over four years since her governess and nurses had been relieved of their duties. The worst part about it all is she isn’t sure _why_ she’s crying; it’s a confusing array of emotions, between the bottled up rage that only grows for her father --- well deserved hate for a hateful man, with those bloodstained covered hands that dare reach out for her now after all these wasted years --- _how dare you, how dare you._ And then there’s that painful ache in her chest once again, her hand is clenched against the fabric of her tunic, right beneath where her heart should be. For some reason it makes her think of her mother, which is odd, only because she never thinks of her mother. At least, she’s never thought of her as a reason to cry over --- though her head governess told her once, no, insisted that there were rare times she’d wept uncontrollably as an infant for someone that none of her nurses could pretend to be --- and in an instant it dawns on Marcella that she’s wishing for her _mother_ here instead of her father.

Oh, how she wished the tables had turned against him instead. Why couldn’t the empire too be afraid of you? Why didn’t they destroy you instead?

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Tayne finds her first. The phrase should be appropriately altered as he happens to return to his quarters and is startled by the sight of a dark silhouette --- no doubt a person --- asleep on his bed; and he might or might not have embarrassingly jumped to a defensive stance on instinct, until it occurs to him that no sane individual is going to break into his cell and rob him of the few personal items he possesses as of the moment. Taking another step closer, he comes to recognize the strawberry blonde hair and feminine figure as Marcella; her face puffy, dried streams down her face likely being tears, he can only assume the visit with her father hadn’t gone off well.

It wasn’t going to end well either.

He sighs and decides to leave her be, she wouldn’t have come running to here of all places if it weren’t an emergency. He won’t send her back now --- not when security are a bunch of pricks around this hour, and no, they don’t make exceptions for royal blood like him trying to explain the sort --- and he won’t wake her to ask. It’s not like that bed was ever particularly comfortable for him anyhow. He searches for an alternate uniform of his and lays it on the ground for a makeshift pillow, shuffling and fidgeting for only a few moments, before falling asleep on the ground beside her.

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_She hates you._

Well, that wasn’t exactly a surprise that he hadn’t been anticipating. At least it proves that he’s still sane and functional, able to predict reasonable outcomes and it proves that she is a reasonable human being that hasn’t been rendered brain dead by imperial propaganda. It proves what he already knew all along, a confirmation that he didn’t need but got anyways from the moment they were alone and he looked right into her eyes. Her god damn mother’s eyes. She hasn’t been told a thing and it’s going to stay that way for a long, long time or so help him. But she doesn’t need any of the truthful information to despise any more than she already does, it was his actions and impression --- or lack thereof --- all this time as a father to her that made her so full of resentment.

Admittance, apologies, affection; these are all suddenly very difficult concepts for him. He knew this since her birth, the disdain he held towards the responsibilities as a father that he knew he’d never be able to fulfill. But some part of him almost wishes that he had, or that he had attempted. At the very least, at some point in the past salvage some sort of a relationship between the two. At least a respectable one and not… not this. Not with every other incident a professor painstakingly apologizing for her unusual behavior and insisting she isn’t normally this outrageous. Their thorough words were chosen with great care, these are smart people beyond the book smarts; they know who he is and what he does, they know what he could do and what little value they hold in truth, at least as compared to his position. Nothing they could ever say or do would ever, ever change this either. Nothing ever changes.

_She hates you._

It shouldn’t bother him, it must be why some part of him is impartial to her outbursts. There’s one part of him that’s physically numb, a hand that had been clutching onto a utensil for far too long --- a knife, how fitting --- and a wave sensation of pins and needles overcame him then. It was that numbness --- stupid, silly numbness of all things --- that had prevented him from going after her. That, and knowing that pursuing would only cause a scene. What he does know is how his grip had unconsciously tightened with her last words; _love_ , she proclaims with a confidence that eerily reminds him of an arrogant minister. Marcella spoke to him as though she knew how the galaxy worked, just because she held a home field advantage here at her isolated academy, that somehow her fourteen years spent memorizing the same unchanging halls was equivalent to his vast knowledge and the horrors he bear witness to --- or had done. In that sentence, she’d won some kind of competition between the two that he wasn’t even aware of. So she found love, did she? Must be a kind to bring her all the happiness in the world, the way she had to emphasize it with such acidity towards him, as if it was something he never had. True, only because he never needed it. And perhaps it was never his to have, he didn’t need it then or now.

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_She hates you._

The Mendax family, he knows who they are, everyone knows who they are. If there were ever a personified definition of filthy, stinking rich then it would be everyone within that arrogant family; bold, swarthy people always out to outdo scenery with their impressive fashion statements and even more impressive; the stupidly bold statements that would slip from their mouths. It’s strange, strange irony that for a royal family that has practically latched themselves onto the empire’s economics with their own various business holds no genuine patriotism towards their empire. It’s a joke to them, a poorly concealed one with the amusement in their drunken, dark eyes. They can, quite literally, get away with murder. To Kallus, they speak words no better than any insurgent --- they’re more like leeches than considerable friends for the emperor --- but no action can ever be taken against them; should something happen to the family, should something ever be done to give them reason to pull away, it would leave lasting economic damage that the empire would… not easily recover from. He hesitates to describe it as an impossible situation --- _Lord Vader can choke someone without being physically present, can he read minds from a great distance too? Is that how he discovered your own foolishness, Maketh_? --- it’s a subject that a wise individual refrains from discussing, only carefully tiptoeing around.

And so there’s a boy out there --- not a prince, no, but a baron no less --- that claims to love her, as she may love him. He wants to laugh; a long, mirthless, bitter laugh at how stupid that prospect is. Stupid, but undeniably true. Of course, this is when it all adds up now. Rumored rebellious uprisings and now the association of a member of the Mendax family --- who, Kallus goes as far as to think, will one day latch off the empire and side with the Organa family and the rebellion itself --- _maker_ , gods above, or whatever deity exists, it all makes sense. This isn’t love, this is twisted --- of all the people in all the academies, in all the galaxy --- the Mendax boy is luring her into wicked business, taking her away from her safety. He’s taking her away from her father.

_She probably knows that, and she doesn’t care anyhow. She hates you, remember?_

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Her mother thought she was in love once. It only destroyed her in the end.

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All he knows is, he’ll see to it to have his hands around that Mendax boy’s neck before any true damage can be done; he’ll kill him first, if needbe, before he can lure his daughter to a life on the run that’s an equivalent to a death sentence. The royal family be damned, he knows how to play these games --- and has before --- to twist the stories, to make things appear different from what they really are. He’ll prove them for the Rebel scum that they really are to win Lord Vader’s approval on his actions.

And --- even when he knows she hates him, even when he knows she will hate him no less when it’s done --- she’ll be _safe._

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X

“The day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth. And only then, you will know the debt is paid.”

“What a disturbingly prophetic statement.”

“It is a warning, Agent Kallus. One my father’s father passed onto him, and him onto me, and I to you. But only because of her.”


End file.
